Miss  BILLYS 
DECISION 

r*¥  T1*  A  vrv%Tn  tr  r*if\r^'Tr-ri*o 

ELEANOR  H.  PORTER 


MISS  BILLY'S  DECISION 


BY  THE  AUTHOR 

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THE  PAGE  COMPANY 
53  Beacon  Street,  Boston,  Mass. 


MISS  BILLY'S 
DECISION 


BY 

ELEANOR  H.  PORTER 

AUTHOR  OP 
POLLYANNA,   ETC, 


NEW    YORK' 

GRO55ET   &   DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1918,  by 
THE  PAGE  COMPACT 


Entered  at  Stationer*'  Hall,  London 


All  rights  reserved 


First  Impression,  June,  1919 
Second  Impression,  July,  1919 
Third  Impression,  September,  1912 
Fourth  Impression,  November,  1912 
Fifth  Impression,  February,  1914 
Sixth  Impression,  April,  1914 
Seventh  Impression,  August,  1914 
Eighth  Impression,  November,  1914 
Ninth  Impression,  February,  1915 
Tenth  Impression,  October,  1915 
Eleventh  Impression,  June,  1916 
Twelfth  Impression,  March,  1917 


TO 

Cnttsfn 


2137729   '• 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  CALDERWELL  DOES  SOME  TALKING     .  i 

II.  AUNT  HANNAH  GETS  A  LETTER   .       .  16 

III.  BILLY  AND  BERTRAM       ....  26 

IV.  FOR  MARY  JANE      .       .       .       .       .  37 
V.  MARIE  SPEAKS  HER  MIND    .              .  43 

VI.  AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  PINK   .       .,      .  50 
VII.  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  NEW         ...  63 
VIII.  M.  J.  OPENS  THE  GAME        ...  73 
IX.  A  RUG,  A  PICTURE,  AND  A  GIRL  AFRAID  86 
X.  A   JOB    FOR   PETE  —  AND   FOR   BER- 
TRAM         106 

XI.  A  CLOCK  AND  AUNT  HANNAH      .      .124 

XII.    SISTER  KATE 133 

XIII.  CYRIL  AND  A  WEDDING  ....  143 

XIV.  M.  J.  MAKES  ANOTHER  MOVE     .       .  157 
XV.  "MR.    BILLY"    AND    "Miss    MARY 

JANE" 172 

XVI.  A  GIRL  AND  A  BIT  OF  LOWESTOFT     .  181 

XVII.  ONLY  A  LOVE  SONG,  BUT —        .       .194 

XVIII.    SUGARPLUMS 200 

XIX.    ALICE  GREGGORY 208 

XX.  ARKWRIGHT  TELLS  A  STORY  .       .       .223 

XXI.  A  MATTER  OF  STRAIGHT  BUSINESS     .  231 
vii 


Ylll 


Contents 


CHAPTER 

PAGE 

XXII. 

PLANS  AND  PLOTTINGS    .... 

242 

XXIII. 

THE  CAUSE  AND  BERTRAM    . 

257 

XXIV. 

THE  ARTIST  AND  His  ART    . 

267 

XXV. 

THE  OPERETTA  

272 

XXVI. 

ARKWRIGHT  TELLS  ANOTHER  STORY    . 

•  /  o 
282 

XXVII. 

THE  THING  THAT  WAS  THE  TRUTH     . 

294 

XXVIII. 

BILLY  TAKES  HER  TURN 

305 

XXIX. 

KATE  WRITES  A  LETTER 

312 

XXX. 

"I'VE  HINDERED  HIM"  . 

321 

XXXI. 

FLIGHT       .       .      .       i             .• 

333 

XXXII. 

PETE  TO  THE  RESCUE     .... 

348 

XXXIII. 

BERTRAM  TAKES  THE  REINS 

354 

Miss  Billy's  Decision 


CHAPTER  I 

CALDERWELL  DOES  SOME  TALKING 

CALDERWELL  had  met  Mr.  M.  J.  Arkwright  in 
London  through  a  common  friend;  since  then 
they  had  tramped  half  over  Europe  together  in  a 
comradeship  that  was  as  delightful  as  it  was  un- 
usual. As  Calderwell  put  it  in  a  letter  to  his  sis- 
ter, Belle: 

"  We  smoke  the  same  cigar  and  drink  the  same 
tea  (he's  just  as  much  of  an  old  woman  on  that 
subject  as  I  am!),  and  we  agree  beautifully  on 
all  necessary  points  of  living,  from  tipping  to  late 
sleeping  in  the  morning;  while  as  for  politics  and 
religion  —  we  disagree  in  those  just  enough  to 
lend  spice  to  an  otherwise  tame  existence." 

Farther  along  in  this  same  letter  Calderwell 

touched  upon  his  new  friend  again. 

1 


Miss  Billy's  Decision 


"  I  admit,  however,  I  would  like  to  know  his 
name.  To  find  out  what  that  mysterious  '  M.  J.' 
stands  for  has  got  to  be  preHy  nearly  an  obsession 
with  me.  I  am  about  ready  to  pick  his  pocket  or 
rifle  his  trunk  in  search  of  some  lurking  '  Martin  * 
or  '  John  '  that  will  set  me  at  peace.  As  it  is,  I 
confess  that  I  have  ogled  his  incoming  mail  and 
his  outgoing  baggage  shamelessly,  only  to  be 
slapped  in  the  face  always  and  everlastingly  by 
that  bland  '  M.  J.'  I've  got  my  revenge,  now, 
though.  To  myself  I  call  him  '  Mary  Jane  ' 
and  his  broad-shouldered,  brown-bearded  six  feet 
of  muscular  manhood  would  so  like  to  be  called 
'  Mary  Jane  '  !  By  the  way,  Belle,  if  you  ever 
hear  of  murder  and  sudden  death  in  my  direction, 
better  set  the  sleuths  on  the  trail  of  Arkwright. 
Six  to  one  you'll  find  I  called  him  '  Mary  Jane  ' 
to  his  face!  " 

Calderwell  was  thinking  of  that  letter  now,  as 
he  sat  at  a  small  table  in  a  Paris  cafe.  Opposite 
him  was  the  six  feet  of  muscular  manhood,  broad 
shoulders,  pointed  brown  beard,  and  all  —  and  he 
had  just  addressed  it,  inadvertently,  as  "  Mary 
Jane." 

During  the  brief,  sickening  moment  of  silence 
after  the  name  had  left  his  lips,  Calderwell  was 
conscious  of  a  whimsical  realization  of  the  lights, 
music,  and  laughter  all  about  him. 


Calderwell  Does  Some  Talking        3 

"  Well,  I  chose  as  safe  a  place  as  I  could!  "  he 
was  thinking.  Then  Arkwright  spoke. 

"  How  long  since  you've  been  in  correspond- 
ence with  members  of  my  family?  " 

"Eh?" 

Arkwright  laughed  grimly. 

"  Perhaps  you  thought  of  it  yourself,  then  — 
I'll  admit  you're  capable  of  it,"  he  nodded,  reach- 
ing for  a  cigar.  "  But  it  so  happens  you  hit  upon 
my  family's  favorite  name  for  me." 

"  Mary  Jane!  You  mean  they  actually  call 
you  that?  " 

"  Yes,"  bowed  the  big  fellow,  calmly,  as  he 
struck  a  light.  "  Appropriate!  —  don't  you 
think?  " 

Calderwell  did  not  answer.  He  thought  he 
could  not. 

:<  Well,  silence  gives  consent,  they  say,"  laughed 
the  other.  "  Anyhow,  you  must  have  had  some 
reason  for  calling  me  that." 

"Arkwright,  what  does  '  M.  J.'  stand  for?" 
Demanded  Calderwell. 

"Oh,  is  that  it?  "  smiled  the  man  opposite. 
:'  Well,  I'll  own  those  initials  have  been  something 
of  a  puzzle  to  people.  One  man  declares  they're 
'  Merely  Jokes  ' ;  but  another,  not  so  friendly,  says 
they  stand  for  '  Mostly' Jealousy  '  of  more  fortu- 
nate chaps  who  have  real  names  for  a  handle.  My 


Miss  Billy's  Decision 


small  brothers  and  sisters,  discovering,  with  the 
usual  perspicacity  of  one's  family  on  such  matters, 
that  I  never  signed,  or  called  myself  anything  but 
*  M.  J.,'  dubbed  me  '  Mary  Jane.'  And  there  you 
have  it." 

"  Mary  Jane!    You!  " 

Arkwright  smiled  oddly. 

"  Oh,  well,  what's  the  difference?  Would  you 
deprive  them  of  their  innocent  amusement?  And 
they  do  so  love  that  '  Mary  Jane ' !  Besides, 
what's  in  a  name,  anyway?  "  he  went  on,  eyeing 
the  glowing  tip  of  the  cigar  between  his  fingers. 
"  '  A  rose  by  any  other  name  —  '  — you've  heard 
that,  probably.  Names  don't  always  signify,  my 
dear  fellow.  For  instance,  I  know  a  '  Billy  '  —  but 
he's  a  girl." 

Calderwell  gave  a  sudden  start. 

"  You  don't  mean  Billy  —  Neilson?  " 

The  other  turned  sharply. 

"  Do  you  know  Billy  Neilson?  " 

\ 

Calderwell  gave  his  friend  a  glance  from  scorn- 
ful eyes. 

"  Do  I  know  Billy  Neilson?  "  he  cried.  "  Does 
a  fellow  usually  know  the  girl  he's  proposed  to 
regularly  once  in  three  months?  Oh,  I  know  I'm 
telling  tales  out  of  school,  of  course,"  he  went  on, 
in  response  to  the  look  that  had  come  into  the 
brown  eyes  opposite.  "But  what's  the  use? 


Calderwell  Does  Some  Talking         5 

Everybody  knows  it  —  that  knows  us.  Billy  her- 
self got  so  she  took  it  as  a  matter  of  course  —  and 
refused  as  a  matter  of  course,  too;  just  as  she 
would  refuse  a  serving  of  apple  pie  at  dinner,  if 
she  hadn't  wanted  it." 

"  Apple  pie!  "  scouted  Arkwright. 

Calderwell  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  you  don't  seem  to  realize  it, 
but  for  the  last  six  months  you  have  been  assisting 
at  the  obsequies  of  a  dead  romance." 

"  Indeed!    And  is  it  —  buried,  yet?  " 

"  Oh,  no,"  sighed  Calderwell,  cheerfully.  "  I 
shall  go  back  one  of  these  days,  I'll  warrant,  and 
begin  the  same  old  game  again;  though  I  will 
acknowledge  that  the  last  refusal  was  so  very  de- 
cided that  it's  been  a  year,  almost,  since  I  received 
it.  I  think  I  was  really  convinced,  for  a  while, 
that  —  that  she  didn't  want  that  apple  pie,"  he 
finished  with  a  whimsical  lightness  that  did  not 
quite  coincide  with  the  stern  lines  that  had  come 
to  his  mouth. 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence,  then  Calder- 
well spoke  again. 

"  Where  did  you  know  —  Miss  Billy?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  her  at  all.  I  know  of  her  — 
through  Aunt  Hannah." 

Calderwell  sat  suddenly  erect. 

"Aunt    Hannah!      Is    she    your    aunt,   too? 


6  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

Jove!  This  is  a  little  old  world,  after  all;  isn't 
it?" 

"  She  isn't  my  aunt.  She's  my  mother's  third 
cousin.  None  of  us  have  seen  her  for  years,  but 
she  writes  to  mother  occasionally;  and,  of  course, 
for  some  time  now,  her  letters  have  been  running 
over  full  of  Billy.  She  lives  with  her,  I  believe; 
doesn't  she?  " 

"  She  does,"  rejoined  Calderwell,  with  an  unex- 
pected chuckle.  "  I  wonder  if  you  know  how  she 
happened  to  live  with  her,  at  first." 

"  Why,  no,  I  reckon  not.    What  do  you  mean?  " 

Calderwell  chuckled  again. 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you.  You,  being  a  '  Mary  Jane,' 
ought  to  appreciate  it.  You  see,  Billy  was  named 
for  one  William  Henshaw,  her  father's  chum, 
who  promptly  forgot  all  about  her.  At  eighteen, 
Billy,  being  left  quite  alone  in  the  world,  wrote  to 
'  Uncle  William  '  and  asked  to  come  and  live  with 
him." 

"  Well?  " 

"  But  it  wasn't  well.  William  was  a  forty-year- 
old  widower  who  lived  with  two  younger  brothers, 
an  old  butler,  and  a  Chinese  cook  in  one  of  those 
funny  old  Beacon  Street  houses  in  Boston.  '  The 
Strata,'  Bertram  called  it.  Bright  boy  —  Ber- 
tram! " 

"  The  Strata! " 


Calderwell  Does  Some  Talking         7 

"  Yes.  I  wish  you  could  see  that  house,  Ark- 
wright.  It's  a  regular  layer  cake.  Cyril  —  he's 
the  second  brother;  must  be  thirty-four  or  five 
now  —  lives  on  the  top  floor  in  a  rugless,  curtain- 
less,  music-mad  existence  —  just  a  plain  crank. 
Below  him  comes  William.  William  collects  things 
—  everything  from  tenpenny  nails  to  teapots,  I 
should  say,  and  they're  all  there  in  his  rooms. 
Farther  down  somewhere  comes  Bertram.  He's 
the  Bertram  Henshaw,  you  understand;  the  art- 
ist." 

"  Not  the  '  Face-of-a-Girl '  Henshaw?  " 

"  The  same;  only  of  course  four  years  ago  he 
wasn't  quite  so  well  known  as  he  is  now.  Well,  to 
resume  and  go  on.  It  was  into  this  house,  this 
masculine  paradise  ruled  over  by  Pete  and  Dong 
Ling  in  the  kitchen,  that  Billy's  naive  request  for 
a  home  came." 

"  Great  Scott!  "  breathed  Arkwright,  apprecia- 
tively. 

"Yes.  Well,  the  letter  was  signed  'Billy.' 
They  took  her  for  a  boy,  naturally,  and  after  some- 
thing of  a  struggle  they  agreed  to  let '  him  '  come. 
For  his  particular  delectation  they  fixed  up  a  room 
next  to  Bertram  with  guns  and  fishing  rods,  and 
such  ladylike  specialties ;  and  William  went  to  the 
station  to  meet  the  boy." 

"  With  never  a  suspicion?  " 


Miss  Billy's  Decision 


"  With  never  a  suspicion." 

"  Gorry!  " 

"  Well,  '  he  '  came,  and  '  she  '  conquered.  I 
guess  things  were  lively  for  a  while,  though.  Oh, 
there  was  a  kitten,  too,  I  believe,  '  Spunk/  who 
added  to  the  gayety  of  nations." 

"  But  what  did  the  Henshaws  do?  " 

"  Well,  I  wasn't  there,  of  course;  but  Bertram 
says  they  spun  around  like  tops  gone  mad  for  a 
time,  but  finally  quieted  down  enough  to  summon 
a  married  sister  for  immediate  propriety,  and  to 
establish  Aunt  Hannah  for  permanency  the  next 
day." 

"  So  that's  how  it  happened!  Well,  by 
George!  "  cried  Arkwright. 

"  Yes,"  nodded  the  other.  "  So  you  see  there 
are  untold  possibilities  just  in  a  name.  Remem- 
ber that.  Just  suppose  you,  as  Mary  Jane,  should 
beg  a  home  in  a  feminine  household  —  say  in 
Miss  Billy's,  for  instance!  " 

"  I'd  like  to,"  retorted  Arkwright,  with  sud- 
den warmth. 

Calderwell  stared  a  little. 

The  other  laughed  shamefacedly. 

"  Oh,  it's  only  that  I  happen  to  have  a  devour- 
ing curiosity  to  meet  that  special  young  lady. 
I  sing  her  songs  (you  know  she's  written  some 
dandies!),  I've  heard  a  lot  about  her,  and  I've 


Calderwell  Does  Some  Talking         9 

seen  her  picture."  (He  did  not  add  that  he  had 
also  purloined  that  same  picture  from  his  mother's 
bureau  —  the  picture  being  a  gift  from  Aunt 
Hannah.)  "  So  you  see  I  would,  indeed,  like  to 
occupy  a  corner  in  the  fair  Miss  Billy's  household,  i 
I  could  write  to  Aunt  Hannah  and  beg  a  home 
with  her,  you  know;  eh?  " 

"'"Of  course !  Why  don't  you  —  '  Mary  Jane '  ?  " 
laughed  Calderwell.  "  Billy'd  take  you  all  right. 
She's  had  a  little  Miss  Hawthorn,  a  music  teacher, 
there  for  months.  She's  always  doing  stunts  of 
that  sort.  Belle  writes  me  that  she's  had  a  dozen 
forlornites  there  all  this  last  summer,  two  or  three 
at  a  time  —  tired  widows,  lonesome  old  maids, 
and  crippled  kids  —  just  to  give  them  a  royal 
good  time.  So  you  see  she'd  take  you,  without  a 
doubt.  Jove!  what  a  pair  you'd  make:  Miss 
Billy  and  Mr.  Mary  Jane!  You'd  drive  the  suf- 
fragettes into  conniption  fits  —  just  by  the  sound 
of  you!  " 

Arkwright  laughed  quietly;    then  he  frowned. 

"  But  how  about  it?  "  he  asked.  "  I  thought 
she  was  keeping  house  with  Aunt  Hannah.  Didn't 
she  stay  at  all  with  the  Henshaws?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  a  few  months.  I  never  knew  just 
why  she  did  leave,  but  I  fancied,  from  something 
Billy  herself  said  once,  that  she  discovered  she 
was  creating  rather  too  much  of  an  upheaval  in 


10  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

the  Strata.  So  she  took  herself  off.  She  went  to 
school,  and  travelled  considerably.  She  was  over 
here  when  I  met  her  first.  After  that  she  was  with 
us  all  one  summer  on  the  yacht.  A  couple  of 
years  ago,  or  so,  she  went  back  to  Boston,  bought 
a  house  and  settled  down  with  Aunt  Hannah." 

"  And  she's  not  married  —  or  even  engaged?  " 

"  Wasn't  the  last  I  heard.  I  haven't  seen  her 
since  December,  and  I've  heard  from  her  only 
indirectly.  She  corresponds  with  my  sister,  and 
so  do  I  —  intermittently.  I  heard  a  month  ago 
from  Belle,  and  she  had  a  letter  from  Billy  in 
August.  But  I  heard  nothing  of  any  engage- 
ment." ;' 

"  How  about  the  Henshaws?  I  should  think 
there  might  be  a  chance  there  for  a  romance  —  a 
charming  girl,  and  three  unattached  men." 

Calderwell  gave  a  slow  shake  of  the  head. 

"  I  don't  think  so.  William  is  —  let  me  see  — 
nearly  forty-five,  I  guess,  by  this  time;  and  he 
isn't  a  marrying  man.  He  buried  his  heart  with 
his  wife  and  baby  years  ago.  Cyril,  according  to 
Bertram,  '  hates  women  and  all  other  confusion,' 
so  that  ought  to  let  him  out.  As  for  Bertram  him- 
self —  Bertram  is  '  only  Bertram.'  He's  always 
been  that.  Bertram  loves  girls  —  to  paint ;  but 
I  can't  imagine  him  making  serious  love  to  any 
one.  It  would  always  be  the  tilt  of  a  chin  or  the 


Calderwell  Does  Some  Talking       11 

turn  of  a  cheek  that  he  was  admiring  —  to  paint. 
No,  there's  no  chance  for  a  romance  there,  I'll 
warrant." 

"  But  there's  —  yourself." 

CalderwelTs  eyebrows  rose  the  fraction  of  an 
inch. 

11  Oh,  of  course.  I  presume  January  or  Febru- 
ary will  find  me  back  there,"  he  admitted  with  a 
sigh  and  a  shrug.  Then,  a  little  bitterly,  he  added : 
"  No,  Arkwright.  I  shall  keep  away  if  I  can.  I 
know  there's  no  chance  for  me  —  now." 

"  Then  you'll  leave  me  a  clear  field?  "  bantered 
the  other. 

"  Of  course  —  '  Mary  Jane,'  "  retorted  Calder- 
well, with  equal  lightness. 

11  Thank  you." 

"  Oh,  you  needn't,"  laughed  Calderwell.  "  My 
giving  you  the  right  of  way  doesn't  insure  you  a 
thoroughfare  for  yourself  —  there  are  others,  you 
know.  Billy  Neilson  has  had  sighing  swains  about  ,. 
her,  I  imagine,  since  she  could  walk  and  talk.  She 
is  a  wonderfully  fascinating  little  bit  of  femininity, 
and  she  has  a  heart  of  pure  gold.  All  is,  I  envy 
the  man  who  wins  it  —  for  the  man  who  wins 
that,  wins  her." 

There  was  no  answer.  Arkwright  sat  with  his 
eyes  on  the  moving  throng  outside  the  window 
near  them.  Perhaps  he  had  not  heard.  At  all 


12  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

events,  when  he  spoke  some  time  later,  it  was  of  a 
matter  far  removed  from  Miss  Billy  Neilson,  or 
the  way  to  her  heart.  Nor  was  the  young  lady 
mentioned  between  them  again  that  day. 

Long  hours  later,  just  before  parting  for  the 
night,  Arkwright  said: 

"  Calderwell,  I'm  sorry,  but  I  believe,  after  all, 
I  can't  take  that  trip  to  the  lakes  with  you.  I  — 
I'm  going  home  next  week." 

"  Home!  Hang  it,  Arkwright!  I'd  counted  on 
you.  Isn't  this  rather  sudden?  " 

"  Yes,  and  no.  I'll  own  I've  been  drifting  about 
with  you  contentedly  enough  for  the  last  six 
months  to  make  you  think  mountain-climbing  and 
boat-paddling  were  the  end  and  aim  of  my  exist- 
ence. But  they  aren't,  you  know,  really." 

"  Nonsense  I  At  heart  you're  as  much  of  a 
vagabond  as  I  am;  and  you  know  it." 

"  Perhaps.  But  unfortunately  I  don't  happen 
to  carry  your  pocketbook." 

'  You  may,  if  you  like.  I'll  hand  it  over  any 
time,"  grinned  Calderwell. 

'  Thanks.  You  know  well  enough  what  I 
mean,"  shrugged  the  other. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence;  then  Calderwell 
queried : 

"  Arkwright,  how  old  are  you?  " 

"  Twenty-four." 


Calderwell  Does  Some  Talking       13 

"  Good!  Then  you're  merely  travelling  to  sup- 
plement your  education,  see?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  see.  But  something  besides  my  edu- 
cation has  got  to  be  supplemented  now,  I  reckon." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do?  " 

There  was  an  almost  imperceptible  hesitation; 
then,  a  little  shortly,  came  the  answer: 

"  Hit  the  trail  for  Grand  Opera,  and  bring  up, 
probably  —  in  vaudeville." 

Calderwell  smiled  appreciatively. 

"  You  can  sing  like  the  devil,"  he  admitted. 

"  Thanks,"  returned  his  friend,  with  uplifted 
eyebrows.  "  Do  you  mind  calling  it  '  an  angel ' 
—  just  for  this  occasion?  " 

"  Oh,  the  matinee-girls  will  do  that  fast  enough. 
But,  I  say,  Arkwright,  what  are  you  going  to  do 
with  those  initials  then?  " 

"  Let  'em  alone." 

"  Oh,  no,  you  won't.  And  you  won't  be  '  Mary 
Jane,'  either.  Imagine  a  Mary  Jane  in  Grand 
Opera !  I  know  what  you'll  be.  You'll  be  '  Sefior 
Martini  Johnini  Arkwrightino  ' !  By  the  way, 
you  didn't  say  what  that  '  M.  J.'  really  did  stand 
for,"  hinted  Calderwell,  shamelessly 

'  Merely  Jokes  '  —  in  your  estimation,  evi- 
dently," shrugged  the  other.  "  But  my  going 
isn't  a  joke,  Calderwell.  I'm  really  going.  And 
I'm  going  to  work." 


14  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

"  But  —  how  shall  you  manage?  " 

11  Time  will  tell." 

Calderwell  frowned  and  stirred  restlessly  in  his 
chair. 

"But,  honestly,  now,  to  —  to  follow  that  trail 
of  yours  will  take  money.  And  —  er  —  "  a  faint 
red  stole  to  his  forehead  —  "  don't  they  have  — 
er  —  patrons  for  these  young  and  budding  gen- 
iuses? Why  can't  I  have  a  hand  in  this  trail,  too 
—  or  maybe  you'd  call  it  a  foot,  eh?  I'd  be  no 
end  glad  to,  Arkwright." 

"  Thanks,  old  man."  The  red  was  duplicated 
this  time  above  the  brown  silky  beard.  "  That 
was  mighty  kind  of  you,  and  I  appreciate  it ;  but 
it  won't  be  necessary.  A  generous,  but  perhaps 
misguided  bachelor  uncle  left  me  a  few  thousands 
a  year  or  so  ago;  and  I'm  going  to  put  them  all 
down  my  throat  —  or  rather,  into  it  —  before  I 
give  up." 

"  Where  you  going  to  study?    New  York?  " 

Again  there  was  an  almost  imperceptible  hesi- 
tation before  the  answer  came. 

"  I'm  not  quite  prepared  to  say." 

"  Why  not  try  it  here?  " 

Arkwright  shook  his  head. 

"I  did  plan  to,  when  I  came  overj  'but  I've 
changed  my  mind.  I  believe  I'd  rather  work  g 
while  longer  in  America."  ( 


Calderwell  Does  Some  Talking       15 

"  Hm-m,"  murmured  Calderwell. 

There  was  a  brief  silence,  followed  by  other 
questions  and  other  answers;  after  which  the 
friends  said  good  night. 

In  his  own  room,  as  he  was  dropping  off  tc 
sleep,  Calderwell  muttered  drowsily: 

"  By  George!  I  haven't  found  out  yet  what 
that  blamed  '  M.  J.'  stands  for! " 


CHAPTER  II 

i 

>UNT  HANNAH  GETS  A  LETTER 

IN  the  cozy  living-room  at  Hillside,  Billy  Neil- 
son's  pretty  home  on  Corey  Hill,  Billy  herself  sat 
writing  at  the  desk.  Her  pen  had  just  traced  the 
date,  "  October  twenty-fifth,"  when  Mrs.  Stetson 
entered  with  a  letter  in  her  hand. 

"  Writing,  my  dear?  Then  don't  let  me  disturb 
you."  She  turned  as  if  to  go. 

Billy  dropped  her  pen,  sprang  to  her  feet,  flew 
to  the  little  woman's  side  and  whirled  her  half 
across  the  room. 

"  There!  "  she  exclaimed,  as  she  plumped  the 
breathless  and  scandalized  Aunt  Hannah  into  the 
biggest  easy  chair.  "  I  feel  better.  I  just  had  to 
let  off  steam  some  way.  It's  so  lovely  you  came 
in  just  when  you  did!  " 

"  Indeed!  I  —  I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,"  stam- 
mered the  lady,  dropping  the  letter  into  her  lap, 
and  patting  with  agitated  fingers  her  cap,  her 
r  curls,  the  two  shawls  about  her  shoulders,  and  the 
lace  at  her  throat.  "  My  grief  and  conscience, 
Billy  i  Won't  you  ever  grow  up?  " 

16 


Aunt  Hannah  Gets  a  Letter         17 

"  Hope  not,"  purred  Billy  cheerfully,  dropping 
herself  on  to  a  low  hassock  at  Aunt  Hannah's  feet. 

"  But,  my  dear,  you  —  you're  engaged!  " 

Billy  bubbled  into  a  chuckling  laugh. 

"  As  if  I  didn't  know  that,  when  I've  just  written 
a  dozen  notes  to  announce  it!  And,  oh,  Aunt 
Hannah,  such  a  time  as  I've  had,  telling  what  a 
dear  Bertram  is,  and  how  I  love,  love,  love  him, 
and  what  beautiful  eyes  he  has,  and  such  a  nose, 
and  —  " 

"  Billy!  "  Aunt  Hannah  was  sitting  erect  in 
pale  horror. 

"  Eh?  "    Billy's  eyes  were  roguish. 

"  You  didn't  write  that  in  those  notes!  " 

"Write  it?  Oh,  no!  That's  only  what  I  wanted 
to  write,"  chuckled  Billy.  "  What  I  really  did 
write  was  as  staid  and  proper  as  —  here,  let  me 
show  you,"  she  broke  off,  springing  to  her  feet  and 
running  over  to  her  desk.  "There!  this  is  about 
what  I  wrote  to  them  all,"  she  finished,  whipping 
a  note  out  of  one  of  the  unsealed  envelopes  on  the 
desk  and  spreading  it  open  before  Aunt  Hannah's 
suspicious  eyes. 

"  Hm-m;  that  is  very  good  —  for  you,"  ad- 
mitted the  lady. 

"Well,  I  like  that!  — after  all  my  stern  self- 
control  and  self-sacrifice  to  keep  out  all  those 
things  I  wanted  to  write,"  bridled  Billy.  "  Be- 


18  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

sides,  they'd  have  been  ever  so  much  more  inter- 
esting reading  than  these  will  be,"  she  pouted,  as 
she  took  the  note  from  her  companion's  hand. 

"  I  don't  doubt  it,"  observed  Aunt  Hannah, 
dryly. 

Billy  laughed,  and  tossed  the  note  back  on  the 
desk. 

"  I'm  writing  to  Belle  Calderwell,  now,"  she 
announced  musingly,  dropping  herself  again  on 
the  hassock.  "  I  suppose  she'll  tell  Hugh."' 

"  Poor  boy!    He'll  be  disappointed." 

Billy  sighed,  but  she  uptilted  her  chin  a  little. 

"  He  ought  not  to  be.  I  told  him  long,  long  ago, 
the  very  first  time,  that  —  that  I  couldn't." 

"  I  know,  dear;  but  —  they  don't  always  un- 
derstand." Aunt  Hannah  sighed  in  sympathy 
with  the  far-away  Hugh  Calderwell,  as  she  looked 
down  at  the  bright  young  face  near  her. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence;  then  Billy  gave 
a  little  laugh. 

"  He  will  be  surprised,"  she  said.  "  He  told 
me  once  that  Bertram  wouldn't  ever  care  for  any 
girl  except  to  paint.  To  paint,  indeed!  As  if  Ber- 
tram didn't  love  me  —  just  me!  —  if  he  never  saw 
another  tube  of  paint!  " 

"  I  think  he  does,  my  dear." 

Again  there  was  silence;  then,  from  Billy's  lips 
there  came  softly: 


Aunt  Hannah  Gets  a  Letter         19 

"Just  think;  we've  been  engaged  almost  four 
weeks  —  and  to-morrow  it'll  be  announced.  I'm 
so  glad  I  didn't  ever  announce  the  other 
^two!" 

"  The  other  two!  "  cried  Aunt  Hannah. 

Billy  laughed. 

"  Oh,  I  forgot.    You  didn't  know  about  Cyril." 

"Cyril!" 

"  Oh,  there  didn't  anybody  know  it,  either  — 
not  even  Cyril  himself,"  dimpled  Billy,  mischie- 
vously. "  I  just  engaged  myself  to  him  in  imagina- 
tion, you  know,  to  see  how  I'd  like  it.  I  didn't 
like  it.  But  it  didn't  last,  anyhow,  very  long  — 
just  three  weeks,  I  believe.  Then  I  broke  it  off," 
she  finished,  with  unsmiling  mouth,  but  dancing 
eyes. 

"  Billy!  "  protested  Aunt  Hannah,  feebly. 

"  But  I  am  glad  only  the  family  knew  about 
my  engagement  to  Uncle  William  —  oh,  Aunt 
Hannah,  you  don't  know  how  good  it  does  seem 
to  call  him  '  Uncle  '  again.  It  was  always  slipping 
out,  anyhow,  all  the  time  we  were  engaged;  and 
of  course  it  was  awful  then." 

'  That  only  goes  to  prove,  my  dear,  how  en- 
tirely unsuitable  it  was,  from  the  start." 

A  bright  color  flooded  Billy's  face. 

"  I  know;  but  if  a  girl  will  think  a  man  is  asking 
for  a  wife  when  all  he  wants  is  a  daughter,  and  P 


20  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

she  blandly  says  '  Yes,  thank  you,  I'll  marry  you,' 
I  don't  know  what  you  can  expect!  " 

'  You  can  expect  just  what  you  got  —  misery, 
and  almost  a  tragedy,"  retorted  Aunt  Hannah, 
severely. 

A  tender  light  came  into  Billy's  eyes. 

"  Dear  Uncle  William!  What  a  jewel  he  was, 
all  the  way  through!  And  he'd  have  marched 
straight  to  the  altar,  too,  with  never  a  flicker  of 
an  eyelid,  I  know  —  self-sacrificing  martyr  that 
he  was!  " 

"  Martyr!  "  bristled  Aunt  Hannah,  with  ex- 
traordinary violence  for  her.  "  I'm  thinking  that 
term  belonged  somewhere  else.  A  month  ago, 
Billy  Neilson,  you  did  not  look  as  if  you'd  live 
out  half  your  days.  But  I  suppose  you'd  have 
gone  to  the  altar,  too,  with  never  a  flicker  of  an 
eyelid!" 

"But  I  thought  I  had  to,"  protested  Billy. 
"  I  couldn't  grieve  Uncle  William  so,  after  Mrs. 
Hartwell  had  said  how  he  —  he  wanted  me." 

Aunt  Hannah's  lips  grew  stern  at  the  corners. 

''There  are  times  when  —  when  I  think  it 
would  be  wiser  if  Mrs.  Kate  Hartwell  would  at- 
tend to  her  own  affairs!  "  Aunt  Hannah's  voice 
fairly  shook  with  wrath. 

"Why  —  Aunt  Hannah!"  reproved  Billy  in 
mischievous  horror.  "I'm  shocked  at  you! " 


Aunt  Hannah  Gets  a  Letter         21 

Aunt  Hannah  flushed  miserably. 

"  There,  there,  child,  forget  I  said  it.  I  ought 
not  to  have  said  it,  of  course,"  she  murmured  agi- 
tatedly. 

Billy  laughed. 

"  You  should  have  heard  what  Uncle  William 
said !  But  never  mind.  We  all  found  out  the  mis- 
take before  it  was  too  late,  and  everything  is 
lovely  now,  even  to  Cyril  and  Marie.  Did  you 
ever  see  anything  so  beatifically  happy  as  that 
couple  are?  Bertram  says  he  hasn't  heard  a  dirge 
from  Cyril's  rooms  for  three  weeks ;  and  that  if  any- 
body else  played  the  kind  of  music  he's  been  play- 
ing, it  would  be  just  common  garden  ragtime! " 

"  Music!  Oh,  my  grief  and  conscience!  That 
makes  me  think,  Billy.  If  I'm  not  actually  for- 
getting what  I  came  in  here  for,"  cried  Aunt 
Hannah,  fumbling  in  the  folds  of  her  dress  for  the 
letter  that  had  slipped  from  her  lap.  "  I've  had 
word  from  a  young  niece.  She's  going  to  study 
music  in  Boston." 

11  A  niece?  " 

"  Well,  not  really,  you  know.  She  calls  me 
\  Aunt,'  just  as  you  and  the  Henshaw  boys  do. 
But  I  really  am  related  to  her,  for  her  mother  and 
I  are  third  cousins,  while  it  was  my  husband  who 
was  distantly  related  to  the  Henshaw  family." 

"  What's  her  name?  " 


Miss  Billy's  Decision 


"  '  Mary  Jane  Arkwright.'  Where  is  that 
letter?"  ' 

"  Here  it  is,  on  the  floor,"  reported  Billy. 
M  Were  you  going  to  read  it  to  me?  "  she  asked, 
as  she  picked  it  up. 

"  Yes  —  if  you  don't  mind." 

"  I'd  love  to  hear  it." 

"  Then  I'll  read  it.  It  —  it  rather  annoys  me 
in  some  ways.  I  thought  the  whole  family  under- 
stood that  I  wasn't  living  by  myself  any  longer 

—  that  I  was  living  with  you.    I'm  sure  I  thought 
I  wrote  them  that,  long  ago.     But  this  sounds 
almost  as  if  they  didn't  understand  it  —  at  least, 
as  if  this  girl  didn't." 

"  How  old  is  she?  " 

"  I  don't  know;  but  she  must  be  some  old,  to 
be  coming  here  to  Boston  to  study  music,  alone 

—  singing,  I  think  she  said." 

"  You  don't  remember  her,  then?  " 
Aunt  Hannah  frowned  and  paused,  the  letter? 
half  withdrawn  from  its  envelope. 

"  No  —  but  that  isn't  strange.  They  live  West. 
I  haven't  seen  any  of  them  for  years.  I  know  there 
are  several  children  —  and  I  suppose  I've  been 
told  their  names.  I  know  there's  a  boy  —  the 
eldest,  I  think  —  who  is  quite  a  singer,  and  there's 
a  girl  who  paints,  I  believe;  but  I  don't  seem  tc 
remember  a  '  Mary  Jane.'  " 


' '  Never  mind !  Suppose  we  let  Mary  Jane  speak 
for  herself,"  suggested  Billy,  dropping  her  chin 
into  the  small  pink  cup  of  her  hand,  and  settling 
herself  to  listen. 

'  Very  well,"  sighed  Aunt  Hannah;    and  she 
opened  the  letter  and  began  to  read. 

"  DEAR  AUNT  HANNAH:  —  This  is  to  tell  you 
that  I'm  coming  to  Boston  to  study  singing  in 
the  school  for  Grand  Opera,  and  I'm  planning  to 
look  you  up.  Do  you  object?  I  said  to  a  friend 
the  other  day  that  I'd  half  a  mind  to  write  to  Aunt 
Hannah  and  beg  a  home  with  her;  and  my  friend 
retorted:  '  Why  don't  you,  Mary  Jane?  '  But 
that,  of  course,  I  should  not  think  of  doing. 

"  But  I  know  I  shall  be  lonesome,  Aunt  Han^ 
nah,  and  I  hope  you'll  let  me  see  you  once  in  a 
while,  anyway.  I  plan  now  to  come  next  week 
—  I've  already  got  as  far  as  New  York,  as  you  see 
by  the  address  —  and  I  shall  hope  to  see  you 
soon. 

"  All  the  family  would  send  love,  I  know. 

"  M.  J.  ARKWRIGHT." 

"  Grand  Opera!  Oh,  how  perfectly  lovely," 
cried  Billy. 

4  Yes,  but  Billy,  do  you  think  she  is  expecting 
me  to  invite  her  to  make  her  home  with  me?    I 


24  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

shall  have  to  write  and  explain  that  I  can't  — 
if  she  does,  of  course." 

Billy  frowned  and  hesitated. 

"  Why,    it    sounded  —  a    little  —  that    way;  . 
but  — "      Suddenly   her   face    cleared.      "Aunt 
Hannah,  I've  thought  of  the  very  thing.    We  will 
take  her! " 

"  Oh,  Billy,  I  couldn't  think  of  letting  you  do 
that,"  demurred  Aunt  Hannah.  "  You're  very 
kind  —  but,  oh,  no;  not  that!" 

"  Why  not?  I  think  it  would  be  lovely;  anc?, 
we  can  just  as  well  as  not.  After  Marie  is  mar- 
ried in  December,  she  can  have  that  room.  Until 
then  she  can  have  the  little  blue  room  next  to  me.'* 

"  But  —  but  —  we  don't  know  anything  about 
her." 

"  We  know  she's  your  niece,  and  she's  lonesome; 
and  we  know  she's  musical.  I  shall  love  her  for 
every  one  of  those  things.  Of  course  we'll  take 
her! " 

"  But  —  I  don't  know  anything  about  her  age." 

"  All  the  more  reason  why  she  should  be  looked 
out  for,  then/'  retorted  Billy,  promptly.  ;<  Why, 
Aunt  Hannah,  just  as  if  you  didn't  want  to  give 
this  lonesome,  unprotected  young  girl  a  home!  " 

"  Oh,  I  do,  of  course;  but  —  " 

"  Then  it's  all  settled,"  interposed  Billy,  spring- 
ing to  her  feet. 


Aunt  Hannah  Gets  a  Letter         25 

"But  what  if  we  —  we  shouldn't  like  her?  " 

"  Nonsense!  What  if  she  shouldn't  like  us?" 
laughed  Billy.  "  However,  if  you'd  feel  better, 
just  ask  her  to  come  and  stay  with  us  a  month. 
We  shall  keep  her  all  right,  afterwards.  See  if  we 
don't!" 

Slowly  Aunt  Hannah  got  to  her  feet. 

"  Very  well,  dear.  I'll  write,  of  course,  as  you 
tell  me  to;  and  it's  lovely  of  you  to  do  it.  Now 
I'll  leave  you  to  your  letters.  I've  hindered  you 
far  too  long,  as  it  is." 

"  You've  rested  me,"  declared  Billy,  flinging 
wide. her  arms. 

Aunt  Hannah,  fearing  a  second  dizzying  whirl 
impelled  by  those  same  young  arms,  drew  her 
shawls  about  her  shoulders  and  backed  hastily 
toward  the  hall  door. 

Billy  laughed. 

"  Oh,  I  won't  again  —  to-day,"  she  promised 
merrily.  Then,  as  the  lady  reached  the  arched 
doorway:  "  Tell  Mary  Jane  to  let  us  know  the 
day  and  train  and  we'll  meet  her.  Oh,  and  Aunt 
Hannah,  tell  her  to  wear  a  pink  —  a  white  pink; 
and  tell  her  we  will,  too,"  she  finished  gayly. 


CHAPTER  III  , 

.  BILLY   AND   BERTRAM 

BERTRAM  called  that  evening.  Before  the  open 
fire  in  the  living-room  he  found  a  pensive  Billy 
awaiting  him  —  a  Billy  who  let  herself  be  kissed, 
it  is  true,  and  who  even  kissed  back,  shyly,  ador- 
ably; but  a  Billy  who  looked  at  him  with  wide, 
almost  frightened  eyes. 

"  Why,  darling,  what's  the  matter?  "  he  de- 
manded, his  own  eyes  growing  wide  and  fright- 
ened. 

"  Bertram,  it's  —  done!  " 

"  What's  done?    What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  Our  engagement.  It's  —  announced.  I  wrote 
stacks  of  notes  to-day,  and  even  now  there  are 
some  left  for  to-morrow.  And  then  there's  —  the 
newspapers.  Bertram,  right  away,  now,  everybody 
will  know  it."  Her  voice  was  tragic. 

Bertram  relaxed  visibly.  A  tender  light  came 
to  his  eyes. 

"  Well,  didn't  you  expect  everybody  would 
know  it,  my  dear?  " 


Billy  and  Bertram  27 

"Y-yes;  but  —  " 

At  her  hesitation,  the  tender  light  changed 
to  a  quick  fear. 

"  Billy,  you  aren't  —  sorry?  " 

The  pink  glory  that  suffused  her  face  answered 
him  before  her  words  did. 

"  Sorry!  Oh,  never,  Bertram!  It's  only  that 
it  won't  be  ours  any  longer  —  that  is,  it  won't 
belong  to  just  our  two  selves.  Everybody  will 
know  it.  And  they'll  bow  and  smile  and  say  '  How 
lovely! '  to  our  faces,  and  '  Did  you  ever?  '  to 
our  backs.  Oh,  no,  I'm  not  sorry,  Bertram;  but 
I  am  —  afraid." 

"Afraid  —  Billy!" 

11  Yes." 

Billy  sighed,  and  gazed  with  pensive  eyes  into 
the  fire. 

Across  Bertram's  face  swept  surprise,  conster- 
nation, and  dismay.  Bertram  had  thought  he 
knew  Billy  in  all  her  moods  and  fancies;  but  he 
did  not  know  her  in  this  one. 

"  Why,  Billy!  "  he  breathed. 

Billy  drew  another  sigh.  It  seemed  to  come 
from  the  very  bottoms  of  her  small,  satin-slippered 
feet. 

11  Well,  I  am.  You're  the  Bertram  Henshaw. 
You  know  lots  and  lots  of  people  that  I  never 
even  saw.  And  they'll  come  and  stand  around 


28  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

and  stare  and  lift  their  lorgnettes  and  say:  '  Is 
that  the  one?  Dear  me! ' 

Bertram  gave  a  relieved  laugh. 

"  Nonsense,  sweetheart !  I  should  think  you 
were  a  picture  I'd  painted  and  hung  on  a 
wall." 

"  I  shall  feel  as  if  I  were  —  with  all  those  friends 
of  yours.  Bertram,  what  if  they  don't  like  it?  " 
Her  voice  had  grown  tragic  again. 

"Likeitl" 

"  Yes.    The  picture  —  me,  I  mean." 

"  They  can't  help  liking  it,"  he  retorted,  with 
the  prompt  certainty  of  an  adoring  lover. 

Billy  shook  her  head.  Her  eyes  had  gone  back 
to  the  fire. 

"  Oh,  yes,  they  can.  I  can  hear  them.  '  What, 
she  —  Bertram  Henshaw's  wife?  —  a  frivolous, 
inconsequential  "  Billy  "  like  that?  '  Bertram!  " 
• — Billy  turned  fiercely  despairing  eyes  on  her 
lover  -  - "  Bertram,  sometimes  I  wish  my  name 
were  '  Clarissa  Cordelia,'  or  '  Arabella  Maud,' 
or  '  Hannah  Jane  '  —  anything  that's  feminine 
and  proper!  " 

Bertram's  ringing  laugh  brought  a  faint  smile 
to  Billy's  lips.  But  the  words  that  followed  the 
laugh,  and  the  caressing  touch  of  the  man's  hands 
sent  a  flood  of  shy  color  to  her  face.  • 

"  'Hannah  Jane,'  indeed!    As  if  I'd  exchange 


Billy  and  Bertram  29 

my  Billy  for  her  or  any  Clarissa  or  Arabella 
that  ever  grew  I  I  adore  Billy — flame,  nature, 
and  —  " 

"And  naughtiness?"  put  in  Billy  herself. 

"  .Yes  —  if  there  be  any/*  laughed  Bertram, 
fondly.  "  But,  see,"  he  added,  taking  a  tiny  box 
from  his  pocket,  "  see  what  I've  brought  for 
this  same  Billy  to  wear.  She'd  have  had  it  long 
ago  if  she  hadn't  insisted  on  waiting  for  this 
announcement  business." 

"Oh,  Bertram,  what  a  beauty!"  dimpled 
Billy,  as  the  flawless  diamond  in  Bertram's  fingers 
caught  the  light  and  sent  it  back  in  a  flash  of 
flame  and  crimson. 

"  Now    you     are    mine  —  really    mine,     sweet- 
'  heart ! "     The  man's  voice  and  hand  shook  as  he 
Clipped  the  ring  on  Billy's  outstretched  finger. 

Billy  caught  her  breath  with  almost  a  sob. 

"And    I'm   so   glad    to  be  —  yours,    dear,"   she 
murmured   brokenly.     "And  —  and   I'll  make  you 
proud  that  I  am  yours,  even  if  I  am  just  '  Billy,' " 
she  choked.    "  Oh,  I  know  I'll  write  such  beautiful,, 
beautiful  songs  now." 

The  man  drew  her  into  a  close  embrace. 

"As  if  I  cared  for  that,"  he  scoffed  lovingly. 

Billy  looked  up  in  quick  horror. 

"Why,  Bertram,  you  don't  mean  you  don't 
—  care?" 


so  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

He  laughed  lightly,  and  took  the  dismayed 
little  face  between  his  two  hands. 

"  Care,  darling?  of  course  I  care!  You  know 
how  I  love  your  music.  I  care  about  everything 
that  concerns  you.  I  meant  that  I'm  proud  of 
you  now  —  just  you.  I  love  you,  you  know." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause.  Billy's  eyes, 
as  they  looked  at  him,  carried  a  curious  intentness 
in  their  dark  depths. 

"  You  mean,  you  like  —  the  turn  of  my  head 
and  the  tilt  of  my  chin?  "  she  asked  a  little  breath- 
lessly. 

"  I  adore  them!  "  came  the  prompt  answer. 

To  Bertram's  utter  amazement,  Billy  drew 
back  with  a  sharp  cry. 

"No,  no  — not  that!" 

"  Why,  Bitty!  " 

Billy  laughed  unexpectedly;    then  she  sighed. 

"  Oh,  it's  all  right,  of  course,"  she  assured 
him  hastily.  "  It's  only  —  "  Billy  stopped  and 
blushed.  Billy  was  thinking  of  what  Hugh  Calder- 
well  had  once  said  to  her :  that  Bertram  Henshaw 
would  never  love  any  girl  seriously ;  that  it  would 
always  be  the  turn  of  her  head  or  the  tilt  of  her 
chin  that  he  loved  —  to  paint. 

;<  Well;   only  what?  "  demanded  Bertram. 

Billy  blushed  the  more  deeply,  but  she  gave  a 
light  laugh. 


Billy  and  Bertram  31 

"  Nothing,  only  something  Hugh  Calderwell 
said  to  me  once.  You  see,  Bertram,  I  don't 
think  Hugh  ever  thought  you  would  —  marry." 

"Oh,  didn't  he?"  bridled  Bertram.  "  Well, 
that  only  goes  to  show  how  much  he  knows 
about  it.  Er  —  did  you  announce  it  —  to 
him? "  Bertram's  voice  was  almost  savage 
now. 

Billy  smiled. 

"No;  but  I  did  to  his  sister,  and  she'll  tell 
him.  Oh,  Bertram,  such  a  time  as  I  had  over 
those  notes,"  went  on  Billy,  with  a  chuckle. 
Her  eyes  were  dancing,  and  she  was  seeming  more 
like  her  usual  self,  Bertram  thought.  "  You  see 
there  were  such  a  lot  of  things  I  wanted  to  say, 
about  what  a  dear  you  were,  and  how  much  I  —  I 
liked  you,  and  that  you  had  such  lovely  eyes, 
and  a  nose  —  " 

"  Billy!  "  This  time  it  was  Bertram  who  was 
sitting  erect  in  pale  horror. 

Billy  threw  him  a  roguish  glance. 

"  Goosey!  You  are  as  bad  as  Aunt  Hannah! 
I  said  that  was  what  I  wanted  to  say.  What 
I  really  said  was  —  quite  another  matter," 
she  finished  with  a  saucy  uptilting  of  her 
chin. 

Bertram  relaxed  with  a  laugh. 

"  You  witch!  "    His  admiring  eyes  still  lingered 


Miss  Billy's  Decision 


on  her  face.  "  Billy,  I'm  going  to  paint  you  some- 
time in  just  that  pose.  You're  adorable!  " 

"  Pooh!  Just  another  face  of  a  girl,"  teased  the 
adorable  one. 

Bertram  gave  a  sudden  exclamation. 

"  There!  And  I  haven't  told  you,  yet.  Guess 
what  my  next  commission  is." 

"  To  paint  a  portrait?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Can't.    Who  is  it?  " 

"  J.  G.  Winthrop's  daughter." 

"  Not  the  J.  G.  Winthrop?  " 

"  The  same." 

"  Oh,  Bertram,  how  splendid!  " 

"  Isn't  it?  And  then  the  girl  herself!  Have  you 
seen  her?  But  you  haven't,  I  know,  unless  you 
met  her  abroad.  She  hasn't  been  in  Boston  for 
years  until  now." 

"  No,  I  haven't  seen  her.  Is  she  so  very  beau- 
tiful? "  Billy  spoke  a  little  soberly. 

"Yes  —  and  no."     The  artist  lifted  his  head 

,  alertly.     What  Billy  called  his  "  painting  look  " 

'  came  to  his  face.     "  It  isn't  that  her  features 

are  so  regular  —  though  her  mouth  and  chin  are 

perfect.     But  her  face  has  so  much  character, 

and  there's  an  elusive  something  about  her  eyes 

—  Jove!    If  I  can  only  catch  it,  it'll  be  the  best 

thing  yet  that  I've  ever  done,  Billy." 


Billy  and  Bertram  33 

"Will  it?  I'm  so  glad  —  and  you'll  get  it, 
I  know  you  will,"  claimed  Billy,  clearing  her 
throat  a  little  nervously. 

"  I  wish  I  felt  so  sure,"  sighed  Bertram.  "  But 
it'll  be  a  great  thing  if  I  do  get  it  —  J.  G.  Win- 
throp's  daughter,  you  know,  besides  the  merit  of 
the  likeness  itself." 

1  Yes;  yes,  indeed!  "  Billy  cleared  her  throat 
again.  "  You've  seen  her,  of  course,  lately?  " 

"  Oh,  yes.  I  was  there  half  the  morning  dis- 
cussing the  details  —  sittings  and  costume,  and 
deciding  on  the  pose." 

"  Did  you  find  one  —  to  suit?  " 

"Find  one!"  The  artist  made  a  despairing 
gesture.  "  I  found  a  dozen  that  I  wanted.  The 
trouble  was  to  tell  which  I  wanted  the  most." 

Billy  gave  a  nervous  little  laugh. 

"  Isn't  that  —  unusual?  "  she  asked. 

Bertram  lifted  his  eyebrows  with  a  quizzical 
smile. 

"  Well,  they  aren't  all  Marguerite  Winthrops," 
he  reminded  her. 

"  Marguerite!  "  cried  Billy.  "  Oh,  is  her  name 
Marguerite?  I  do  think  Marguerite  is  the  dearest 
name! "  Billy's  eyes  and  voice  were  wistful. 

"  I  don't  —  not  the  dearest.  Oh,  it's  all  well 
enough,  of  course,  but  it  can't  be  compared  for 
a  moment  to  —  well,  say,  '  Billy  '  !  " 


34  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

Billy  smiled,  but  she  shook  her  head. 

"  I'm  afraid  you're  not  a  good  judge  of  names," 
she  objected. 

"  Yes,  I  am;  though,  for  that  matter,  I  should 
love  your  name,  no  matter  what  it  was."  / 

"  Even  if  'twas  '  Mary  Jane/  eh?  "  bantered 
Billy.  "  Well,  you'll  have  a  chance  to  find  out 
how  you  like  that  name  pretty  quick,  sir.  We're 
going  to  have  one  here." 

"  You're  going  to  have  a  Mary  Jane  here?  Do 
you  mean  that  Rosa's  going  away?  " 

"  Mercy!  I  hope  not,"  shuddered  Billy.  "  You 
don't  find  a  Rosa  in  every  kitchen  —  and  never 
in  employment  agencies!  My  Mary  Jane  is  a 
niece  of  Aunt  Hannah's,  —  or  rather,  a  cousin. 
She's  coming  to  Boston  to  study  music,  and  I've 
invited  her  here.  We've  asked  her  for  a  month, 
though  I  presume  we  shall  keep  her  right 
along." 

Bertram  frowned. 

"  Well,  of  course,  that's  very  nice  for — Mary 
Jane,11  he  sighed  with  meaning  emphasis. 

Billy  laughed. 

"  Don't  worry,  dear.    She  won't  bother  us  any." 

"  Oh,  yes,  she  will,"  sighed  Bertram.  "  She'll 
be  'round  —  lots;  you  see  if  she  isn't.  Billy,  I 
think  sometimes  you're  almost  too  kind  —  to 
other  folks." 


Billy  and  Bertram  35 

"  Never !/'  laughed  Billy.  "  Besides,  what  would 
you  have  me  do  when  a  lonesome  young  girl  was 
coming  to  Boston?  Anyhow,  you're  not  the  one 
to  talk,  young  man.  I've  known  you  to  take  in 
/  a  lonesome  girl  and  give  her  a  home,"  she  flashed 
merrily. 

Bertram  chuckled. 

"  Jove!  What  a  time  that  was!  "  he  exclaimed, 
regarding  his  companion  with  fond  eyes.  "  And 
Spunk,  too!  Is  she  going  to  bring  a  Spunk?  " 

"  Not  that  I've  heard,"  smiled  Billy;  "  but  she 
is  going  to  wear  a  pink." 

"  Not  really,  Billy?  " 

"  Of  course  she  is!  I  told  her  to.  How  do  you 
suppose  we  could  know  her  when  we  saw  her, 
if  she  didn't?  "  demanded  the  girl,  indignantly. 
"  And  what  is  more,  sir,  there  will  be  two  pinks 
worn  this  time.  /  sha'n't  do  as  Uncle  William  did, 
and  leave  off  my  pink.  Only  think  what  long  min- 
utes —  that  seemed  hours  of  misery  —  I  spent 
waiting  there  in  that  train-shed,  just  because 
I  didn't  know  which  man  was  my  Uncle 
William!" 

Bertram  laughed  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Well,  your  Mary  Jane  won't  probably  turn 
out  to  be  quite  such  a  bombshell  as  our  Billy 
did  —  unless  she  should  prove  to  be  a  boy,"  he 
added  whimsically.  "  Oh,  but  Billy,  she  can't 


36  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

turn  out  to  be  such  a  dear  treasure,"  finished  the 
man.  And  at  the  adoring  look  in  his  eyes  Billy 
blushed  deeply  —  and  promptly  forgot  all  about 
Mary  Jane  and  her  pink. 


CHAPTER   IV 

FOR    MARY    JANE 

"  I  HAVE  a  letter  here  from  Mary  Jane,  my 
dear,"  announced  Aunt  Hannah  at  the  luncheon 
table  one  day. 

"  Have  you?  "  Billy  raised  interested  eyes 
from  her  own  letters.  "  What  does  she  say?  " 

"  She  will  be  here  Thursday.  Her  train  is 
due  at  the  South  Station  at  four-thirty.  She 
seems  to  be  very  grateful  to  you  for  your  offer  to 
let  her  come  right  here  for  a  month;  but  she  says 
she's  afraid  you  don't  realize,  perhaps,  just  what 
you  are  doing  —  to  take  her  in  like  that,  with  her 
Ringing,  and  all." 

"  Nonsense!    She  doesn't  refuse,  does  she?  " 

"  Oh,  no;  she  doesn't  refuse  —  but  she  doesn't 
accept  either,  exactly,  as  I  can  see.  I've  read  the 
letter  over  twice,  too.  I'll  let  you  judge  for  your- 
self by  and  by,  when  you  have  time  to  read  it." 

Billy  laughed. 

"  Never  mind.  I  don't  want  to  read  it.  She's 
just  a  little  shy  about  coming,  that's  all.  She'll 

37 


38  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

stay  all  right,  when  we  come  to  meet  her.    What 
time  did  you  say  it  was,  Thursday?  " 

"  Half  past  four,  South  Station." 

"  Thursday,  at  half  past  four.     Let  me  see  — 
that's  the  day  of   the  Carletons'    '  At   Home,'' 
isn't  it?  " 

11  Oh,  my  grief  and  conscience,  yes!  But  I  had 
forgotten  it.  What  shall  we  do?  " 

"  Oh,  that  will  be  easy.  We'll  just  go  to  the 
Carletons'  early  and  have  John  wait,  then  take 
us  from  there  to  the  South  Station.  Meanwhile 
we'll  make  sure  that  the  little  blue  room  is  all  ready 
for  her.  I  put  in  my  white  enamel  work-basket 
yesterday,  and  that  pretty  little  blue  case  for 
hairpins  and  curling  tongs  that  I  bought  at  the 
fair.  I  want  the  room  to  look  homey  to  her,  you 
know." 

"  As  if  it  could  look  any  other  way,  if  you  had 
anything  to  do  with  it,"  sighed  Aunt  Hannah, 
admiringly. 

Billy  laughed. 

"  If  we  get  stranded  we  might  ask  the  Henshaw 
boys  to  help  us  out,  Aunt  Hannah.  They'd 
probably  suggest  guns  and  swords.  That's  the 
way  they  fixed  up  my  room." 

Aunt  Hannah  raised  shocked  hands  of  protest. 

"As  if  we  would!  Mercy,  what  a  time  that 
was!" 


For  Mary  Jane  39 

Billy  laughed  again. 

"  I  never  shall  forget,  never,  my  first  glimpse  of 
that  room  when  Mrs.  Hartwell  switched  on  the 
lights.  Oh,  Aunt  Hannah,  I  wish  you  could  have 
seen  it  before  they  took  out  those  guns  and 
spiders!  " 

"  As  if  I  didn't  see  quite  enough  when  I  saw 
William's  face  that  morning  he  came  for  me! " 
retorted  Aunt  Hannah,  spiritedly. 

"  Dear  Uncle  William!  What  an  old  saint  he 
has  been  all  the  way  through,"  mused  Billy  aloud. 
"  And  Cyril  —  who  would  ever  have  believed  that 
the  day  would  come  when  Cyril  would  say  to 
me,  as  he  did  last  night,  that  he  felt  as  if  Marie 
had  been  gone  a  month.  It's  been  just  seven  days, 
you  know." 

"  I  know.    She  comes  to-morrow,  doesn't  she?  " 

'  Yes,  and  I'm  glad.  I  shall  tell  Marie  she 
needn't  leave  Cyril  on  my  hands  again.  Bertram 
says  that  at  home  Cyril  hasn't  played  a  dirge 
since  his  engagement;  but  I  notice  that  up  here 
—  where  Marie  might  be,  but  isn't  —  his  tunes 
would  never  be  mistaken  for  ragtime.  By  the 
way,"  she  added,  as  she  rose  from  the  table, 
"  that's  another  surprise  in  store  for  Hugh  Calder- 
well.  He  always  declared  that  Cyril  wasn't  a 
marrying  man,  either,  any  more  than  Bertram. 
You  know  he  said  Bertram  only  cared  for  girls 


40  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

to  paint;  but  —  "  She  stopped  and  looked  in- 
quiringly at  Rosa,  who  had  appeared  at  that  mo- 
ment in  the  hall  doorway. 

"  It's  the  telephone,  Miss  Neilson.  Mr.  Ber- 
tram Henshaw  wants  you." 

A  few  minutes  later  Aunt  Hannah  heard  Billy 
at  the  piano.  For  fifteen,  twenty,  thirty  minutes 
the  brilliant  scales  and  arpeggios  rippled  through 
the  rooms  and  up  the  stairs  to  Aunt  Hannah,  who 
knew,  by  the  very  sound  of  them,  that  some 
unusual  nervousness  was  being  worked  off  at  the 
finger  tips  that  played  them.  At  the  end  of  forty- 
five  minutes  Aunt  Hannah  went  down-stairs. 

"  Billy,  my  dear,  excuse  me,  but  have  you  for- 
gotten what  time  it  is?  Weren't  you  going  out 
with  Bertram?  " 

Billy  stopped  playing  at  once,  but  she  did  not 
turn  her  head.  Her  fingers  busied  themselves- 
with  some  music  on  the  piano. 

"  We  aren't  going,  Aunt  Hannah,"  she  said. 
"  Bertram  can't." 

"  Can't!  " 

"  Well,  he  didn't  want  to  —  so  of  course  I 
said  not  to.  He's  been  painting  this  morning  on 
a  new  portrait,  and  she  said  he  might  stay  to 
luncheon  and  keep  right  on  for  a  while  this 
afternoon,  if  he  liked.  And  —  he  did  like,  so  he 
stayed." 


For  Mary  Jane  41 

"  Why,  how  —  how  —  "  Aunt  Hannah  stopped 
helplessly. 

"  Oh,  no,  not  at  all,"  interposed  Billy,  lightly. 
"  He  told  me  all  about  it  the  other  night.  It's 
going  to  be  a  very  wonderful  portrait;  and,  of 
course,  I  wouldn't  want  to  interfere  with  —  his 
work!  "  And  again  a  brilliant  scale  rippled  from 
Billy's  fingers  after  a  crashing  chord  in  the  bass. 

Slowly  Aunt  Hannah  turned  and  went  up-stairs. 
Her  eyes  were  troubled.  Not  since  Billy's  engage- 
ment had  she  heard  Billy  play  like  that. 

Bertram  did  not  find  a  pensive  Billy  awaiting 
him  that  evening.  He  found  a  bright-eyed, 
flushed-cheeked  Billy,  who  let  herself  be  kissed 
• —  once  —  but  who  did  not  kiss  back ;  a  blithe, 
elusive  Billy,  who  played  tripping  little  melodies, 
and  sang  jolly  little  songs,  instead  of  sitting  be- 
fore the  fire  and  talking;  a  Billy  who  at  last 
turned,  and  asked  tranquilly: 

"  Well,  how  did  the  picture  go?  " 

Bertram  rose  then,  crossed  the  room,  and  took 
Billy  very  gently  into  his  arms. 

"  Sweetheart,  you  were  a  dear  this  noon  to 
let  me  off  like  that,"  he  began  in  a  voice  shaken 
with  emotion.  "  You  don't  know,  perhaps, 
exactly  what  you  did.  You  see,  I  was  nearly 
wild  between  wanting  to  be  with  you,  and  wanting 
to  go  on  with  my  work.  And  I  was  just  at  that 


42  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

point  where  one  little  word  from  you,  one  hint 
that  you  wanted  me  to  come  anyway  —  and  I 
should  have  come.  But  you  didn't  say  it,  nor  hint 
it.  Like  the  brave  little  bit  of  inspiration  that  you 
are,  you  bade  me  stay  and  go  on  with  my  work." 

The  "inspiration's"  head  drooped  a  little 
lower,  but  this  only  brought  a  wealth  of  soft 
bronze  hair  to  just  where  Bertram  could  lay  his 
cheek  against  it  —  and  Bertram  promptly  took 
advantage  of  his  opportunity.  "  And  so  I  stayed, 
Billy,  and  I  did  good  work;  I  know  I  did  good 
work.  Why,  Billy,"  —  Bertram  stepped  back 
now,  and  held  Billy  by  the  shoulders  at  arms' 
length  — "  Billy,  that's  going  to  be  the  best 
work  I've  ever  done.  I  can  see  it  coming  even 
now,  under  my  fingers." 

Billy  lifted  her  head  and  looked  into  her  lover's 
face.  His  eyes  were  glowing.  His  cheeks  were 
flushed.  His  whole  countenance  was  aflame  with 
the  soul  of  the  artist  who  sees  his  vision  taking 
shape  before  him.  And  Billy,  looking  at  him,  felt 
suddenly  • —  ashamed. 

"  Oh,  Bertram,  I'm  proud,  proud,  proud  of 
you!  "  she  breathed.  "  Come,  let's  go  over  to 
die  fire  —  and  talk!" 


CHAPTER  V  . 

MARIE    SPEAKS    HER    MIND 

BILLY  with  John  and  Peggy  met  Marie  Haw- 
thorn at  the  station.  "  Peggy  "  was  short  for 
"  Pegasus,"  and  was  what  Billy  always  called 
her  luxurious,  seven-seated  touring  car. 

"  I  simply  won't  call  it  '  automobile,'  "  she 
had  declared  when  she  bought  it.  "In  the  first 
place,  it  takes  too  long  to  say  it,  and  in  the  second 
place,  I  don't  want  to  add  one  more  to  the  nine- 
teen different  ways  to  pronounce  it  that  I  hear 
all  around  me  every  day  now.  As  for  calling  it 
my  '  car,'  or  my  '  motor  car  '  —  I  should  expect 
to  see  a  Pullman  or  one  of  those  huge  black  trucks 
before  my  door,  if  I  ordered  it  by  either  of  those 
names.  Neither  will  I  insult  the  beautiful  thing 
by  calling  it  a  '  machine.'  Its  name  is  Pegasus. 
I  shall  call  it  '  Peggy.'  " 

And  "  Peggy  "  she  called  it.  John  sniffed  his 
disdain,  and  Billy's  friends  made  no  secret  of 
their  amused  tolerance;  but,  in  an  astonishingly 
short  time,  half  the  automobile  owners  of  her 

43 


44  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

acquaintance  were  calling  their  own  cars  "  Peggy  " ; 
and  even  the  dignified  John  himself  was  heard  to 
order  "  some  gasoline  for  Peggy,"  quite  as  a  mat- 
ter of  course. 

When  Marie  Hawthorn  stepped  from  the  train 
at  the  North  Station  she  greeted  Billy  with  affec- 
tionate warmth,  though  at  once  her  blue  eyes 
swept  the  space  beyond  expectantly  and  eagerly. 

Billy's  lips  curved  in  a  mischievous  smile. 

"  No,  he  didn't  come,"  she  said.  "  He  didn't 
want  to  —  a  little  bit." 

Marie  grew  actually  pale. 

"  Didn't  want  to!  "  she  stammered. 

Billy  gave  her  a  spasmodic  hug. 

"Goosey!  No,  he  didn't  —  a  little  bit;  but 
he  did  a  great  big  bit.  As  if  you  didn't  know  he 
was  dying  to  come,  Marie!  But  he  simply 
couldn't  —  something  about  his  concert  Monday 
night.  He  told  me  over  the  telephone;  but  be- 
tween his  joy  that  you  were  coming,  and  his 
rage  that  he  couldn't  see  you  the  first  minute 
you  did  come,  I  couldn't  quite  make  out  what  was 
the  trouble.  But  he's  coming  to  dinner  to-night, 
so  he'll  doubtless  tell  you  all  about  it." 

Marie  sighed  her  relief. 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right  then.  I  was  afraid  he 
was  sick  —  when  I  didn't  see  him." 

Billy  laughed  softly. 


Marie  Speaks  Her  Mind  45 

"  No,  he  isn't  sick,  Marie;  but  you  needn't  go 
away  again  before  the  wedding  —  not  to  leave 
him  on  my  hands.  I  wouldn't  have  believed 
Cyril  Henshaw,  confirmed  old  bachelor  and 
avowed  woman-hater,  could  have  acted  the  part 
of  a  love-sick  boy  as  he  has  the  last  week  or 
two." 

The  rose-flush  on  Marie's  cheek  spread  to  the 
roots  of  her  fine  yellow  hair. 

"  Billy,  dear,  he  — he  didn't!  " 

"  Marie,  dear  —  he  —  he  did!  " 

Marie  laughed.  She  did  not  say  anything, 
but  the  rose-flush  deepened  as  she  occupied  her- 
self very  busily  in  getting  her  trunk-check  from 
the  little  hand  bag  she  carried. 

Cyril  was  not  mentioned  again  until  the  two 
girls,  veils  tied  and  coats  buttoned,  were  snugly 
ensconced  in  the  tonneau,  and  Peggy's  nose  was 
turned  toward  home.  Then  Billy  asked : 

"  Have  you  settled  on  where  you're  going  to 
live?  " 

"  Not  quite.  We're  going  to  talk  of  that 
to-night;  but  we  do  know  that  we  aren't  going 
to  live  at  the  Strata." 

"Marie!" 

Marie  stirred  uneasily  at  the  obvious  disap- 
pointment and  reproach  in  her  friend's  voice. 

"  But,  dear,  it  wouldn't  be  wise,  I'm  sure/' 


46  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

she   argued  hastily.     "  There  will  be  you   and 
Bertram.  —  " 

;<  We  sha'n't  be  there  for  a  year,  nearly,"  cut 
in  Billy,  with  swift  promptness.  "  Besides,  I 
think  it  would  be  lovely  —  all  together." 

Marie  smiled,  but  she  shook  her  head. 

"  Lovely  —  but  not  practical,  dear." 

Billy  laughed  ruefully. 

"  I  know;  you're  worrying  about  those  puddings 
of  yours.  You're  afraid  somebody  is  going  to 
interfere  with  your  making  quite  so  many  as  you 
want  to;  and  Cyril  is  worrying  for  fear  there'll 
be  somebody  else  in  the  circle  of  his  shaded  lamp 
besides  his  little  Marie  with  the  light  on  her  hair, 
and  the  mending  basket  by  her  side." 

"  Billy,  what  are  you  talking  about?  " 

Billy  threw  a  roguish  glance  into  her  friend's 
amazed  blue  eyes. 

"  Oh,  just  a  little  picture  Cyril  drew  once  for 
me  of  what  home  meant  for  him:  a  room  with 
a  table  and  a  shaded  lamp,  and  a  little  woman 
beside  it  with  the  light  on  her  hair  and  a  great 
basket  of  sewing  by  her  side." 

Marie's  eyes  softened. 

"  Did  he  say  —  that?  " 

'  Yes.  Oh,  he  declared  he  shouldn't  want  her 
to  sit  under  that  lamp  all  the  time,  of  course; 
but  he  hoped  she'd  like  that  sort  of  thing." 


Marie  Speaks  Her  Mind  4T 

Marie  threw  a  quick  glance  at  the  stolid  back 
of  John  beyond  the  two  empty  seats  in  front  of 
them.  Although  she  knew  he  could  not  hear  her 
words,  instinctively  she  lowered  her  voice. 

"  Did  you  know  —  then  —  about  —  me?  "  she 
asked,  with  heightened  color. 
•  "  No,  only  that  there  was  a  girl  somewhere 
who,  he  hoped,  would  sit  under  the  lamp  some 
day.  And  when  I  asked  him  if  the  girl  did  like 
that  sort  of  thing,  he  said  yes,  he  thought  so; 
for  she  had  told  him  once  that  the  things  she  liked 
best  of  all  to  do  were  to  mend  stockings  and 
make  puddings.  Then  I  knew,  of  course,  'twas 
you,  for  I'd  heard  you  say  the  same  thing.  So 
I  sent  him  right  along  out  to  you  in  the  summer- 
house." 

The  pink  flush  on  Marie's  face  grew  to  a  red 
one.  Her  blue  eyes  turned  again  to  John's  broad 
back,  then  drifted  to  the  long,  imposing  line  of 
windowed  walls  and  doorways  on  the  right.  The 
automobile  was  passing  smoothly  along  Beacon 
Street  now  with  the  Public  Garden  just  behind 
them  on  the  left.  After  a  moment  Marie  turned 
to  Billy  again. 

"I'm  so  glad  he  wants  —  just  puddings  and 
stockings,"  she  began  a  little  breathlessly.  "  You 
see,  for  so  long  I  supposed  he  wouldn't  want  any- 
thing but  a  very  brilliant,  talented  wife  who  could 


48  Miss  Billy's  Decision 


play  and  sing  beautifully;  a  wife  he'd  be  proud 
of  —  like  you." 

"Me?  Nonsense!"  laughed  Billy.  "Cyril 
never  wanted  me,  and  I  never  wanted  him  —  only 
once  for  a  few  minutes,  so  to  speak,  when  I  thought 
I  did.  In  spite  of  our  music,  we  aren't  a  mite 
congenial.  I  like  people  around;  he  doesn't/ 
I  like  to  go  to  plays;  he  doesn't.  He  likes  rainy 
days,  and  I  abhor  them.  Mercy!  Life  with  me 
for  him  would  be  one  long  jangling  discord,  my 
love,  while  with  you  it'll  be  one  long  sweet  song!  " 

Marie  drew  a  deep  breath.  Her  eyes  were  fixed 
on  a  point  far  ahead  up  the  curveless  street. 

"  I  hope  it  will,  indeed!  "  she  breathed. 

Not  until  they  were  almost  home  did  Billy 
say  suddenly: 

"  Oh,  did  Cyril  write  you?  A  young  relative 
of  Aunt  Hannah's  is  coming  to-morrow  to  stay 
a  while  at  the  house." 

"  Er  —  yes,  Cyril  told  me,"  admitted  Marie. 

Billy  smiled. 

"  Didn't  like  it,  I  suppose;  eh?  "  she  queried 
shrewdly. 

"  N-no,  I'm  afraid  he  didn't  —  very  well.  He 
said  she'd  be  —  one  more  to  be  around." 

"  There,  what  did  I  tell  you?  "  dimpled  Billy. 

'  You  can  see  what  you're  coming  to  when  you 

do  get  that  shaded  lamp  and  the  mending  basket!  " 


Marie  Speaks  Her  Mind  49 

A  moment  later,  coming  in  sight  of  the  house, 
Billy  saw  a  tall,  smooth-shaven  man  standing  on 
the  porch.  The  man  lifted  his  hat  and  waved  it 
gayly,  baring  a  slightly  bald  head  to  the  sun. 

"  It's  Uncle  William  —  bless  his  heart!  "  cried 
Billy.  '  They're  all  coming  to  dinner,  then  he 
and  Aunt  Hannah  and  Bertram  and  I  are  going 
down  to  the  Hollis  Street  Theatre  and  let  you  and 
Cyril  have  a  taste  of  what  that  shaded  lamp  is 
going  to  be.  I  hope  you  won't  be  lonesome," 
she  finished  mischievously,  as  the  car  drew  up 
before  the  door. 


CHAPTER  VI 

AT    THE   SIGN   OF    THE    PINK 

AFTER  a  week  of  beautiful  autumn  weather, 
Thursday  dawned  raw  and  cold.  By  noon  an 
east  wind  had  made  the  temperature  still  more 
uncomfortable. 

At  two  o'clock  Aunt  Hannah  tapped  at  Billy's 
chamber  door.  She  showed  a  troubled  face  to 
the  girl  who  answered  her  knock. 

"  Billy,  would  you  mind  very  much  if  I  asked 
you  to  go  alone  to  the  Carletons'  and  to  meet 
Mary  Jane?  "  she  inquired  anxiously. 

'''  Why,  no  —  that  is,  of  course  I  should  mind, 
dear,  because  I  always  like  to  have  you  go  to 
places  with  me.  But  it  isn't  necessary.  You 
aren't  sick;  are  you?  " 

"  N-no,  not  exactly;  but  I  have  been  sneez- 
ing all  the  morning,  and  taking  camphor  and  sugar 
to  break  it  up  —  if  it  is  a  cold.  But  it  is  so  raw 
and  Novemberish  out,  that  —  " 

'  Why,  of  course  you  sha'n't  go,  you  poor 
dear!  Mercy!  don't  get  one  of  those  dreadful 
colds  on  to  you  before  the  wedding !  Have  you  felt 

60 


At  the  Sign  of  the  Pink  51 

a  draft?  Where's  another  shawl?  "  Billy  turned 
and  cast  searching  eyes  about  the  room  —  Billy 
always  kept  shawls  everywhere  for  Aunt  Hannah's 
shoulders  and  feet.  Bertram  had  been  known 
to  say,  indeed,  that  a  room,  according  to  Aunt 
Hannah,  was  not  fully  furnished  unless  it  con- 
tained from  one  to  four  shawls,  assorted  as  to  size 
and  warmth.  Shawls,  certainly,  did  seem  to  be 
a  necessity  with  Aunt  Hannah,  as  she  usually 
wore  from  one  to  three  at  the  same  time  —  which 
again  caused  Bertram  to  declare  that  he  always 
counted  Aunt  Hannah's  shawls  when  he  wished 
to  know  what  the  thermometer  was. 

"  No,  I'm  not  cold,  and  I  haven't  felt  a  draft," 
said  Aunt  Hannah  now.  "  I  put  on  my  thickest 
gray  shawl  this  morning  with  the  little  pink  one 
for  down-stairs,  and  the  blue  one  for  breakfast; 
so  you  see  I've  been  very  careful.  But  I  have 
sneezed  six  times,  so  I  think  'twould  be  safer  not 
to  go  out  in  this  east  wind.  You  were  going  to 
stop  for  Mrs.  Granger,  anyway,  weren't  you? 
So  you'll  have  her  with  you  for  the  tea." 

'  Yes,  dear,  don't  worry.  I'll  take  your  cards 
and  explain  to  Mrs.  Carleton  and  her  daughters." 

"  And,  of  course,  as  far  as  Mary  Jane  is  con- 
cerned, I  don't  know  her  any  more  than  you  do; 
so  I  couldn't  be  any  help  there,"  sighed  Aunt 
Hannah. 


52  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

"  Not  a  bit,"  smiled  Billy,  cheerily.  "  Don't 
give  it  another  thought,  my  dear.  I  sha'n't 
have  a  bit  of  trouble.  All  I'll  have  to  do  is  to 
look  for  a  girl  alone  with  a  pink.  Of  course  I'll 
have  mine  on,  too,  and  she'll  be  watching  for  me. 
So  just  run  along  and  take  your  nap,  dear,  and  be 
all  rested  and  ready  to  welcome  her  when  she 
comes,"  finished  Billy,  stooping  to  give  the  soft, 
faintly  pink  cheek  a  warm  kiss. 

"Well,  thank  you,  my  dear;  perhaps  I  will," 
sighed  Aunt  Hannah,  drawing  the  gray  shawl 
about  her  as  she  turned  away  contentedly. 

Mrs.  Carleton's  tea  that  afternoon  was,  for 
Billy,  not  an  occasion  of  unalloyed  joy.  It  was  the 
first  time  she  had  appeared  at  a  gathering  of 
any  size  since  the  announcement  of  her  engage- 
ment; and,  as  she  dolefully  told  Bertram  after- 
wards, she  had  very  much  the  feeling  of  the  picture 
hung  on  the  wall. 

"  And  they  did  put  up  their  lorgnettes  and  say, 
'  Is  that  the  one? '  "  she  declared;  "  and  I  know 
some  of  them  finished  with  '  Did  you  ever?  '  too," 
she  sighed. 

But  Billy  did  not  stay  long  in  Mrs.  Carleton's 
softly-lighted,  flower-perfumed  rooms.  At  ten 
minutes  past  four  she  was  saying  good-by  to  a 
group  of  friends  who  were  vainly  urging  her  to 
remain  longer. 


At  the  Sign  of  the  Pink  53 

"  I  can't  —  I  really  can't,"  she  declared.  "  I'm 
due  at  the  South  Station  at  half  past  four  to 
meet  a  Miss  Arkwright,  a  young  cousin  of  Aunt 
Hannah's,  whom  I've  never  seen  before.  We're 
to  meet  at  the  sign  of  the  pink,"  she  explained 
smilingly,  just  touching  the  single  flower  she 
wore. 

Her  hostess  gave  a  sudden  laugh. 

"  Let  me  see,  my  dear;  if  I  remember  rightly, 
you've  had  experience  before,  meeting  at  this 
sign  of  the  pink.  At  least,  I  have  a  very  vivid 
recollection  of  Mr.  William  Henshaw's  going  once 
to  meet  a  boy  with  a  pink,  who  turned  out  to  be 
a  girl.  Now,  to  even  things  up,  your  girl  should 
turn  out  to  be  a  boy!  " 

Billy  smiled  and  reddened. 

"  Perhaps  —  but  I  don't  think  to-day  will 
strike  the  balance,"  she  retorted,  backing  toward 
the  door.  '  This  young  lady's  name  is  '  Mary 
Jane  ' ;  and  I'll  leave  it  to  you  to  find  anything 
very  masculine  in  that!  " 

It  was  a  short  drive  from  Mrs.  Carleton's 
Commonwealth  Avenue  home  to  the  South  Sta- 
tion, and  Peggy  made  as  quick  work  of  it  as  the 
narrow,  congested  cross  streets  would  allow. 
In  ample  time  Billy  found  herself  in  the  great 
waiting-room,  with  John  saying  respectfully  in 
her  ear: 


Miss  Billy's  Decision 

"  The  man  says  the  train  comes  in  on  Track 
Fourteen,  Miss,  an'  it's  on  time." 

At  twenty-nine  minutes  past  four  Billy  left 
her  seat  and  walked  down  the  train-shed  platform 
to  Track  Number  Fourteen.  She  had  pinned 
the  pink  now  to  the  outside  of  her  long  coat,  and 
it  made  an  attractive  dash  of  white  against  the 

o 

dark-blue  velvet.  Billy  was  looking  particularly 
lovely  to-day.  Framing  her  face  was  the  big 
dark-blue  velvet  picture  hat  with  its  becoming 
white  plumes. 

During  the  brief  minutes'  wait  before  the  clang- 
ing locomotive  puffed  into  view  far  down  the  long 
track,  Billy's  thoughts  involuntarily  went  back 
to  that  other  watcher  beside  a  train  gate  not 
quite  five  years  before. 

"  Dear  Uncle  William!  "  she  murmured  ten- 
derly. Then  suddenly  she  laughed  —  so  nearly 
aloud  that  a  man  behind  her  gave  her  a  covert 
glance  from  curious  eyes.  "  My!  but  what  a 
jolt  I  must  have  been  to  Uncle  William!  "  Billy 
was  thinking. 

The  next  minute  she  drew  nearer  the  gate  and 
regarded  with  absorbed  attention  the  long  line 
of  passengers  already  sweeping  up  the  narrow 
aisle  between  the  cars. 

Hurrying  men  came  first,  with  long  strides, 
and  eyes  that  looked  straight  ahead.  These 


At  the  Sign  of  the  Pink     55 

Billy  let  pass  with  a  mere  glance.  The  next  group 
showed  a  sprinkling  of  women  —  women  whose 
trig  hats  and  linen  collars  spelled  promptness  as 
well  as  certainty  of  aim  and  accomplishment. 
To  these,  also,  Billy  paid  scant  attention.  Couples 
came  next  —  the  men  anxious-eyed,  and  usually 
walking  two  steps  ahead  of  their  companions; 
the  women  plainly  flustered  and  hurried,  and 
invariably  buttoning  gloves  or  gathering  up  trail- 
ing ends  of  scarfs  or  boas. 

The  crowd  was  thickening  fast,  now,  and  Billy's 
eyes  were  alert.  Children  were  appearing,  and 
young  women  walking  alone.  One  of  these  wore 
a  bunch  of  violets.  Billy  gave  her  a  second  glance. 
Then  she  saw  a  pink  —  but  it  was  on  the  coat  lapel 
of  a  tall  young  fellow  with  a  brown  beard ;  so  with 
a  slight  frown  she  looked  beyond  down  the  line. 

Old  men  came  now,  and  old  women;  fleshy 
women,  and  women  with  small  children  and  babies. 
Couples  came,  too  —  dawdling  couples,  plainly 
newly  married:  the  men  were  not  two  steps 
ahead,  and  the  women's  gloves  were  buttoned  and 
their  furs  in  place. 

Gradually  the  line  thinned,  and  soon  there  were 
left  only  an  old  man  with  a  cane,  and  a  young 
woman  with  three  children.  Yet  nowhere  had 
Billy  seen  a  girl  wearing  a  white  carnation,  and 
walking  alone. 


56  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

With  a  deeper  frown  on  her  face  Billy  turned 
and  looked  about  her.  She  thought  that  some- 
where in  the  crowd  she  had  missed  Mary  Jane, 
and  that  she  would  find  her  now,  standing  near. 
But  there  was  no  one  standing  near  except  the 
good-looking  young  fellow  with  the  little  pointed 
brown  beard,  who,  as  Billy  noticed  a  second 
time,  was  wearing  a  white  carnation. 

As  she  glanced  toward  him,  their  eyes  met. 
Then,  to  Billy's  unbounded  amazement,  the  man 
advanced  with  uplifted  hat. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  is  not  this  —  Miss 
Neilson?  " 

Billy  drew  back  with  just  a  touch  of  hauteur. 

"  Y-yes,"  she  murmured. 

"I  thought  so  —  yet  I  was  expecting  to  see 
you  with  Aunt  Hannah.  I  am  M.  J.  Arkwright, 
Miss  Neilson." 

For  a  brief  instant  Billy  stared  dazedly. 

"  You  don't  mean  —  Mary  Jane?  "  she  gasped. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  do."    His  lips  twitched. 

"But    I    thought  —  we    were    expecting  — 
She    stopped    helplessly.      For    one    more    brief 
instant    she    stared;     then,    suddenly,    a    swift 
change  came  to  her  face.    Her  eyes  danced. 

"Oh  — oh!"  she  chuckled.  "How  per- 
fectly funny!  You  have  evened  things  up,  after 
all.  To  think  that  Mary  Jane  should  be  a  —  " 


At  the  Sign  of  the  Pink  57 

She  paused  and  flashed  almost  angrily  suspicious 
eyes  into  his  face.     "  But  mine  was  '  Billy,'  ' 
she    cried.      "  Your    name   isn't    really  —  Mary 
Jane'?" 

"  I  am  often  called  that."  His  brown  eyes 
twinkled,  but  they  did  not  swerve  from  their 
direct  gaze  into  her  own. 

"  But  —  Billy  hesitated,  and  turned  her 
eyes  away.  She  saw  then  that  many  curious 
glances  were  already  being  flung  in  her  direction. 
The  color  in  her  cheeks  deepened.  With  an  odd 
little  gesture  she  seemed  to  toss  something  aside. 
"  Never  mind,"  she  laughed  a  little  hysterically. 
"  If  you'll  pick  up  your  bag,  please,  Mr. — 
Mary  Jane,  and  come  with  me.  John  and  Peggy 
are  waiting.  Or  —  I  forgot  —  you  have  a  trunk, 
of  course?  " 

The  man  raised  a  protesting  hand. 

'Thank  you;  but,  Miss  Neilson,  really  —  I 
couldn't  think  of  trespassing  on  your  hospitality 
• —  now,  you  know." 

"  But  we  —  we  invited  you,"  stammered  Billy. 

He  shook  his  head. 
'  You  invited  Miss  Mary  Jane." 

Billy  bubbled  into  low  laughter. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  it  is  funny,"  she  sighed. 

1  You  see  I  came  once  just  the  same  way,  and 

now  to  have  the  tables  turned  like  this!    What 


58  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

will  Aunt  Hannah  say  —  what  will  everybody 
say?  Come,  I  want  them  to  begin  —  to  say  it," 
she  chuckled  irrepressibly. 

"  Thank  you,  but  I  shall  go  to  a  hotel,  of  course. 
Later,  if  you'll  be  so  good  as  to  let  me  call,  and 
explain  —  !  " 

"  But  I'm  afraid  Aunt  Hannah  will  think  - 
Billy  stopped  abruptly.  Some  distance  away 
she  saw  John  coming  toward  them.  She  turned 
hurriedly  to  the  man  at  her  side.  Her  eyes  still 
danced,  but  her  voice  was  mockingly  serious. 
"  Really,  Mr.  Mary  Jane,  I'm  afraid  you'll  have 
to  come  to  dinner;  then  you  can  settle  the  rest 
with  Aunt  Hannah.  John  is  almost  upon  us  — 
and  "I  don't  want  to  make  explanations.  Do  you?  " 

"  John,"  she  said  airily  to  the  somewhat  dazed 
chauffeur  (who  had  been  told  he  was  to  meet  a 
young  woman),  "  take  Mr.  Arkwright's  bag, 
please,  and  show  him  where  Peggy  is  waiting. 
It  will  be  five  minutes,  perhaps,  before  I  can  come 
—  if  you'll  kindly  excuse  me,"  she  added  to 
Arkwright,  with  a  flashing  glance  from  merry 
eyes.  "  I  have  some  —  telephoning  to  do." 

All  the  way  to  the  telephone  booth  Billy  was 
trying  to  bring  order  out  of  the  chaos  of  her  mind; 
but  all  the  way,  too,  she  was  chuckling. 

'  To  think  that  this  thing  should  have  happened 
to  me!  "  she  said,  almost  aloud.  "  And  here  I 


At  the  Sign  of  the  Pink  59 

am  telephoning  just  like  Uncle  William  —  Bertram 
said  Uncle  William  did  telephone  about  me!  " 

In  due  course  Billy  had  Aunt  Hannah  at  the 
other  end  of  the  wire. 

"  Aunt  Hannah,  listen.  I'd  never  have  be- 
lieved it,  but  it's  happened.  Mary  Jane  is  —  a 
man." 

Billy  heard  a  dismayed  gasp  and  a  muttered 
"  Oh,  my  grief  and  conscience!  "  then  a  shaking 
"  Wha-at?  " 

"  I  say,  Mary  Jane  is  a  man."  Billy  was  en- 
joying herself  hugely. 

"  A  ma-an!  " 

'  Yes ;  a  great  big  man  with  a  brown  beard. 
He's  waiting  now  with  John  and  I  must  go." 

"  But,  Billy,  I  don't  understand,"  chattered 
an  agitated  voice  over  the  line.  "  He  —  he  called 
himself  '  Mary  Jane.'  He  hasn't  any  business 
to  be  a  big  man  with  a  brown  beard !  What  shall 
we  do?  We  don't  want  a  big  man  with  a  brown 
beard  —  here!  " 

Billy  laughed  roguishly. 

"  I  don't  know.  You  asked  him!  How  he 
will  like  that  little  blue  room  —  Aunt  Hannah!  " 
Billy's  voice  turned  suddenly  tragic.  "  For  pity's 
sake  take  out  those  curling  tongs  and  hairpins, 
and  the  work-basket.  I'd  never  hear  the  last  of 
it  if  he  saw  those,  I  know.  He's  just  that  kind!  M 


60  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

A  half  stifled  groan  came  over  the  wire. 

"  Billy,  he  can't  stay  here." 

Billy  laughed  again. 

"  No,  no,  dear;  he  won't,  I  know.  He  says 
he's  going  to  a  hotel.  But  I  had  to  bring  him  home 
to  dinner;  there  was  no  other  way,  under  the  cir- 
cumstances. He  won't  stay.  Don't  you  worry. 
But  good-by.  I  must  go.  Remember  those  curling 
tongs!  "  And  the  receiver  clicked  sharply  against 
the  hook. 

In  the  automobile  some  minutes  later,  Billy 
and  Mr.  M.  J.  Arkwright  were  speeding  toward 
Corey  Hill.  It  was  during  a  slight  pause  in  the 
conversation  that  Billy  turned  to  her  companion 
with  a  demure: 

"  I  telephoned  Aunt  Hannah,  Mr.  Arkwright. 
I  thought  she  ought  to  be  —  warned." 

'  You  are  very  kind.  What  did  she  say?  —  if 
I  may  ask." 

There  was  a  brief  moment  of  hesitation  before 
Billy  answered. 

11  She  said  you  called  yourself  '  Mary  Jane/ 
and  that  you  hadn't  any  business  to  be  a  big  man 
with  a  brown  beard." 

Arkwright  laughed. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  owe  Aunt  Hannah  an  apology," 
he  said.  He  hesitated,  glanced  admiringly  at  the 
glowing,  half-averted  face  near  him,  then  went 


At  the  Sign  of  the  Pink  61 

on  decisively.  He  wore  the  air  of  a  man  who  has 
set  the  match  to  his  bridges.  "  I  signed  both 
letters  '  M.  J.  Arkwright,'  but  in  the  first  one 
I  quoted  a  remark  of  a  friend,  and  in  that  remark 
I  was  addressed  as  '  Mary  Jane.'  I  did  not  know 
but  Aunt  Hannah  knew  of  the  nickname."  (Ark- 
wright was  speaking  a  little  slowly  now,  as  if 
weighing  his  words.)  "  But  when  she  answered, 
I  saw  that  she  did  not;  for,  from  something  she 
said,  I  realized  that  she  thought  I  was  a  real 
Mary  Jane.  For  the  joke  of  the  thing  I  let  it  pass. 
But  —  if  she  noticed  my  letter  carefully,  she  saw 
that  I  did  not  accept  your  kind  invitation  to  give 
'  Mary  Jane  '  a  home." 

11  Yes,  we  noticed  that,"  nodded  Billy,  merrily. 
"  But  we  didn't  think  you  meant  it.  You  see 
we  pictured  you  as  a  shy  young  thing.  But, 
really,"  she  went  on  with  a  low  laugh,  "  you  see 
your  coming  as  a  masculine  '  Mary  Jane  '  was 
particularly  funny  —  for  me ;  for,  though  perhaps 
you  didn't  know  it,  I  came  once  to  this  very  same 
city,  wearing  a  pink,  and  was  expected  to  be  Billy, 
a  boy.  And  only  to-day  a  lady  warned  me  that 
your  coming  might  even  things  up.  But  I  didn't 
believe  it  would  —  a  Mary  Jane!  " 

Arkwright  laughed.     Again  he  hesitated,  and 
seemed  to  be  weighing  his  words. 
• "  Yes,  I  heard  about  that  coming  of  yours. 


62  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

I  might  almost  say  —  that's  why  I  —  let  the 
mistake  pass  in  Aunt  Hannah's  letter,"  he  said. 

Billy  turned  with  reproachful  eyes. 

"Oh,  how  could 'you?  But  then  —  it  was  a 
temptation!  "  She  laughed  suddenly.  "  What 
sinful  joy  you  must  have  had  watching  me  hunt 
for  '  Mary  Jane/  ' 

"  I  didn't,"  acknowledged  the  other,  with  un- 
expected candor.  "  I  felt  —  ashamed.  And  when 
I  saw  you  were  there  alone  without  Aunt  Hannah, 
I  came  very  near  not  speaking  at  all  —  until  I 
realized  that  that  would  be  even  worse,  under  the 
circumstances." 

"  Of  course  it  would,"  smiled  Billy,  brightly; 
"  so  I  don't  see  but  I  shall  have  to  forgive  you, 
after  all.  And  here  we  are  at  home,  Mr.  Mary 
Jane.  By  the  way,  what  did  you  say  that '  M.  J/ 
did  stand  for?  "  she  asked,  as  the  car  came  to  a 
stop. 

The  man  did  not  seem  to  hear;  at  least  he  did 
not  answer.  He  was  helping  his  hostess  to  alight. 
A  moment  later  a  plainly  agitated  Aunt  Hannah 

—  her  gray  shawl  topped  with  a  huge  black  one 

—  opened  the  door  of  the  house. 


CHAPTER  VII 

OLD    FRIENDS  AND    NEW 

AT  ten  minutes  before  six  on  the  afternoon  of 
Arkwright's  arrival,  Billy  came  into  the  living- 
room  to  welcome  the  three  Henshaw  brothers, 
who,  as  was  frequently  the  case,  were  dining  at 
Hillside. 

Bertram  thought  Billy  had  never  looked  prettier 
than  she  did  this  afternoon  with  the  bronze  sheen 
of  her  pretty  house  gown  bringing  out  the  bronze 
lights  in  her  dark  eyes  and  in  the  soft  waves  of 
her  beautiful  hair.  Her  countenance,  too,  carried 
a  peculiar  something  that  the  artist's  eye  was  quick 
to  detect,  and  that  the  artist's  fingers  tingled  to 
put  on  canvas. 

"  Jove!  Billy,"  he  said  low  in  her  ear,  as  he 
greeted  her,  "  I  wish  I  had  a  brush  in  my  hand 
this  minute.  I'd  have  a  '  Face  of  a  Girl '  that 
would  be  worth  while!  " 

Billy  laughed  and  dimpled  her  appreciation; 
but  down  in  her  heart  she  was  conscious  of  a 
vague  unrest.  Billy  wished,  sometimes,  that  she 
did  not  so  often  seem  to  Bertram  —  a  picture. 

63 


64  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

She  turned  to  Cyril  with  outstretched  hand. 

"  Oh,  yes,  Marie's  coming,"  she  smiled  in  an- 
swer to  the  quick  shifting  of  Cyril's  eyes  to  the 
hall  doorway.  "  And  Aunt  Hannah,  too.  They're 
up-stairs." 

"  And  Mary  Jane? "  demanded  William,  a 
little  anxiously 

;<  Will's  getting  nervous,"  volunteered  Bertram, 
airily.  "  He  wants  to  see  Mary  Jane.  You  see 
we've  told  him  that  we  shall  expect  him  to  see 
that  she  doesn't  bother  us  four  too  much,  you 
know.  He's  expected  always  to  remove  her  quietly 
but  effectually,  whenever  he  sees  that  she  is 
likely  to  interrupt  a  tete-a-tete.  Naturally,  then, 
Will  wants  to  see  Mary  Jane." 

Billy  began  to  laugh  hysterically.  She  dropped 
into  a  chair  and  raised  both  her  hands,  palms 
outward. 

" Don't,  don't  —  please  don't!"  she  choked, 
"  or  I  shall  die.  I've  had  all  I  can  stand,  already." 

"  All  you  can  stand?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  Is  she  so  —  impossible?  "  This  last  was  from 
Bertram,  spoken  softly,  and  with  a  hurried  glance 
toward  the  hall. 

Billy  dropped  her  hands  and  lifted  her  head. 
By  heroic  effort  she  pulled  her  face  into  sobriety 
—  all  but  her  eyes  —  and  announced : 


Old  Friends  and  New  65 

11  Mary  Jane  is  —  a  man." 

"  Wha-at?  " 

"  A  man!  " 

''Billy!" 

Three  masculine  forms  sat  suddenly  erect. 

"  Yes.  Oh,  Uncle  William,  I  know  now  just 
how  you  felt  —  I  know,  I  know,"  gurgled  Billy, 
incoherently.  "  There  he  stood  with  his  pink 
just  as  I  did  —  only  he  had  a  brown  beard,  and 
he  didn't  have  Spunk  —  and  I  had  to  telephone 
to  prepare  folks,  just  as  you  did.  And  the  room 
-  the  room!  I  fixed  the  room,  too,"  she  babbled 
breathlessly,  "  only  I  had  curling  tongs  and  hair 
pins  in  it  instead  of  guns  and  spiders!  " 

"  Child,  child!  what  are  you  talking  about?  " 
William's  face  was  red. 

"  A  man!  —  Mary  Jane!  "  Cyril  was  merely 
cross. 

"  Billy,  what  does  this  mean?  "  Bertram  had 
grown  a  little  white. 

Billy  began  to  laugh  again,  yet  she  was  plainly 
trying  to  control  herself. 

"I'll  tell  you.  I  must  tell  you.  Aunt  Hannah 
is  keeping  him  up-stairs  so  I  can  tell  you,"  she 
panted.  "  But  it  was  so  funny,  when  I  expected 
a  girl,  you  know,  to  see  him  with  his  brown 
beard,  and  he  was  so  tall  and  big!  And,  of  course, 
it  made  me  think  how  /  came,  and  was  a  girl 


66  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

when  you  expected  a  boy;  and  Mrs.  Carleton 
had  just  said  to-day  that  maybe  this  girl  would 
even  things  up.  Oh,  it  was  so  funny!  " 

"  Billy,  my  —  my  dear,"  remonstrated  Uncle 
William,  mildly. 

"  But  what  is  his  name?  "  demanded  Cyril. 

"  Did  the  creature  sign  himself  '  Mary  Jane  '?  " 
exploded  Bertram. 

"  I  don't  know  his  name,  except  that  it's  '  M. 
J.'  —  and  that's  how  he  signed  the  letters.  But 
he  is  called  '  Mary  Jane  '  sometimes,  and  in  the 
letter  he  quoted  somebody's  speech  —  I've  for- 
gotten just  how  —  but  in  it  he  was  called  '  Mary 
Jane,'  and,  of  course,  Aunt  Hannah  took  him 
for  a  girl,"  explained  Billy,  grown  a  little  more 
coherent  now. 

"  Didn't  he  write  again?  "  asked  William. 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  why  didn't  he  correct  the  mistake, 
then?  "  demanded  Bertram. 

Billy  chuckled. 

"  He  didn't  want  to,  I  guess.  He  thought  it 
was  too  good  a  joke." 

"Joke!  "scoffed  Cyril. 

"  But,  see  here,  Billy,  he  isn't  going  to  live  here 
—  now?  "  Bertram's  voice  was  almost  savage. 

"Oh,  no,  he  isn't  going  to  live  here  —  now," 
interposed  smooth  tones  from  the  doorway. 


Old  Friends  and  New  67 

"Mr.  —  Arkwright!"  breathed  Billy,  confu- 
sedly. 

Three  crimson-faced  men  sprang  to  their  feet. 
The  situation,  for  a  moment,  threatened  embar- 
rassed misery  for  all  concerned;  but  Arkwright, 
with  a  cheery  smile,  advanced  straight  toward 
Bertram,  and  held  out  a  friendly  hand. 

"  The  proverbial  fate  of  listeners,"  he  said 
easily;  "but  I  don't  blame  you  at  all.  No, 
'  he  '  isn't  going  to  live  here,"  he  went  on,  grasp- 
ing each  brother's  hand  in  turn,  as  Billy  mur- 
mured faint  introductions;  "  and  what  is  more, 
he  hereby  asks  everybody's  pardon  for  the  annoy- 
ance his  little  joke  has  caused.  He  might  add 
that  he's  heartily  ^'ashamed  of  himself,  as  well; 
but  if  any  of  you  —  "  Arkwright  turned  to  the 
three  tall  men  still  standing  by  their  chairs  — 
"  if  any  of  you  had  suffered  what  he  has  at  the 
hands  of  a  swarm  of  youngsters  for  that  name's 
sake,  you  wouldn't  blame  him  for  being  tempted 
to  get  what  fun  he  could  out  of  Mary  Jane  —  if 
there  ever  came  a  chance!  " 

Naturally,  after  this,  there  could  be  nothing 
stiff  or  embarrassing.  Billy  laughed  in  relief, 
and  motioned  Mr.  Arkwright  to  a  seat  near  her. 
William  said  "  Of  course,  of  course!  "  and  shook 
hands  again.  Bertram  and  Cyril  laughed  shame- 
facedly and  sat  down.  Somebody  said:  "But 


68  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

what  does  the  '  M.  J.'  stand  for,  anyhow? " 
Nobody  answered  this,  however;  perhaps  be- 
cause Aunt  Hannah  and  Marie  appeared  just 
then  in  the  doorway. 

Dinner  proved  to  be  a  lively  meal.  In  the  new- 
comer, Bertram  met  his  match  for  wit  and  satire; 
and  "  Mr.  Mary  Jane,"  as  he  was  promptly  called 
by  every  one  but  Aunt  Hannah,  was  found  to 
be  a  most  entertaining  guest. 

After  dinner  somebody  suggested  music. 

Cyril  frowned,  and  got  up  abruptly.  Still 
frowning,  he  turned  to  a  bookcase  near  him  and 
began  to  take  down  and  examine  some  of  the 
books. 

Bertram  twinkled  and  glanced  at  Billy. 

"  Which  is  it,  Cyril?  "  he  called  with  cheerful 
impertinence;  "  stool,  piano,  or  audience  that  is 
the  matter  to-night?  " 

Only  a  shrug  from  Cyril  answered. 

"  You  see,"  explained  Bertram,  jauntily,  to 
Arkwright,  whose  eyes  were  slightly  puzzled, 
"  Cyril  never  plays  unless  the  piano  and  the  pedals 
and  the  weather  and  your  ears  and  my  watch 
and  his  fingers  are  just  right!  " 

"  Nonsense!  "  scorned  Cyril,  dropping  his  book 
and  walking  back  to  his  chair.  "  I  don't  feel 
like  playing  to-night;  that's  all." 

"  You  see,"  nodded  Bertram  again. 


Old  Friends  and  New  69 

"  I  see,"  bowed  Arkwright  with  quiet  amuse- 
ment. 

"  I  believe  —  Mr.  Mary  Jane  —  sings,"  ob- 
served Billy,  at  this  point,  demurely. 

"  Why,  yes,  of  course,"  chimed  in  Aunt  Hannah 
with  some  nervousness.  "  That's  what  she  —  I 
mean  he  —  was  coming  to  Boston  for  —  to  study 
music." 

Everybody  laughed. 

"  Won't  you  sing,  please?  "  asked  Billy.  "  Can 
you  —  without  your  notes?  I  have  lots  of  songs 
if  you  want  them." 

For  a  moment  —  but  only  a  moment  —  Ark- 
wright hesitated;  then  he  rose  and  went  to  the 
piano. 

With  the  easy  sureness  of  the  trained  musician 
his  fingers  dropped  to  the  keys  and  slid  into  pre- 
liminary chords  and  arpeggios  to  test  the  touch  of 
the  piano ;  then,  with  a  sweetness  and  purity  that 
made  every  listener  turn  in  amazed  delight,  a 
well- trained  tenor  began  the  "  Thro'  the  leaves 
the  night  winds  moving,"  of  Schubert's  Serenade. 

Cyril's  chin  had  lifted  at  the  first  tone.  He  was 
listening  now  with  very  obvious  pleasure.  Ber- 
tram, too,  was  showing  by  his  attitude  the  keenest 
appreciation.  William  and  Aunt  Hannah,  resting 
back  in  their  chairs,  were  contentedly  nodding  their 
approval  to  each  other.  Marie  in  her  corner  was 


70  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

motionless  with  rapture.  As  to  Billy  —  Billy 
was  plainly  oblivious  of  everything  but  the  song 
and  the  singer.  She  seemed  scarcely  to  move  or 
to  breathe  till  the  song's  completion;  then  there 
came  a  low  "  Oh,  how  beautiful!  "  through  her 
parted  lips. 

Bertram,  looking  at  her,  was  conscious  of  a 
vague  irritation. 

"  Arkwright,  you're  a  lucky  dog,"  he  declared 
almost  crossly.  "  I  wish  I  could  sing  like  that!  " 

"  I  wish  I  could  paint  a  '  Face  of  a  Girl,'  ' 
smiled  the  tenor  as  he  turned  from  the  piano. 

"  Oh,  but,  Mr.  Arkwright,  don't  stop,"  objected 
Billy,  springing  to  her  feet  and  going  to  her  music 
cabinet  by  the  piano.  "  There's  a  little  song 
of  Nevin's  I  want  you  to  sing.  There,  here  it  is. 
Just  let  me  play  it  for  you."  And  she  slipped  into 
the  place  the  singer  had  just  left. 

It  was  the  beginning  of  the  end.  After  Nevin 
came  De  Koven,  and  after  De  Koven,  Gounod. 
Then  came  Nevin  again,  Billy  still  playing  the 
accompaniment.  Next  followed  a  duet.  Billy 
did  not  consider  herself  much  of  a  singer,  but  her 
voice  was  sweet  and  true,  and  not  without  train- 
ing. It  blended  very  prettily  with  the  clear,  pure 
tenor. 

William  and  Aunt  Hannah  still  smiled  content- 
edly in  their  chairs,  though  Aunt  Hannah  had 


Old  Friends  and  New  71 

reached  for  the  pink  shawl  near  her  —  the  music 
had  sent  little  shivers  down  her  spine.  Cyril, 
with  Marie,  had  slipped  into  the  little  reception- 
room  across  the  hall,  ostensibly  to  look  at  some 
plans  for  a  house,  although  —  as  everybody 
knew  —  they  were  not  intending  to  build  for  a 
year. 

Bertram,  still  sitting  stiffly  erect  in  his  chair, 
was  not  conscious  of  a  vague  irritation  now. 
He  was  conscious  of  a  very  real,  and  a  very  de- 
cided one  —  an  irritation  that  was  directed  against 
himself,  against  Billy,  and  against  this  man,  Ark- 
wright;  but  chiefly  against  music,  per  se.  He 
hated  music.  He  wished  he  could  sing.  He  won- 
dered how  long  it  took  to  teach  a  man  to  sing, 
anyhow ;  and  he  wondered  if  a  man  could  sing  — 
•who  never  had  sung. 

At  this  point  the  duet  came  to  an  end,  and  Billy 
and  her  guest  left  the  piano.  Almost  at  once, 
after  this,  Arkwright  made  his  very  graceful 
adieus,  and  went  off  with  his  suit-case  to  the  hotel 
where,  as  he  had  informed  Aunt  Hannah,  his  room 
was  already  engaged. 

William  went  home  then,  and  Aunt  Hannah 
went  up-stairs.  Cyril  and  Marie  withdrew  into 
a  still  more  secluded  corner  to  look  at  their  plans, 
and  Bertram  found  himself  at  last  alone  with 
Billy.  He  forgot,  then,  in  the  blissful  hour  he 


72  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

spent  with  her  before  the  open  fire,  how  he  hated 
music;  though  he  did  say,  just  before  he  went 
home  that  night: 

"Billy,  how  long  does  it  take  —  to  learn  to 
sing?  " 

"  Why,  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  replied  Billy, 
abstractedly;  then,  with  sudden  fervor:  *'  Oh, 
Bertram,  hasn't  Mr.  Mary  Jane  a  beautiful 
voice?  " 

Bertram  wished  then  he  had  not  asked  the  ques- 
tion ;  but  all  he  said  was : 

"  '  Mr.  Mary  Jane,'  indeed!  What  an  absurd 
name!  " 

"  But  doesn't  he  sing  beautifully?  " 

"Eh?  Oh,  yes,  he  sings  all  right,"  said  Ber- 
tram's tongue.  Bertram's  manner  said:  "  Oh, 
yes,  anybody  can  sing." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

M.  J.  OPENS   THE  GAME 

ON  the  morning  after  Cyril's  first  concert  of 
the  season,  Billy  sat  sewing  with  Aunt  Hannah 
in  the  little  sitting-room  at  the  end  of  the  hall  up- 
stairs. Aunt  Hannah  wore  only  one  shawl  this 
morning,  —  which  meant  that  she  was  feeling 
unusually  well. 

"  Marie  ought  to  be  here  to  mend  these  stock- 
ings," remarked  Billy,  as  she  critically  examined 
a  tiny  break  in  the  black  silk  mesh  stretched  across 
the  darning-egg  in  her  hand;  "only  she'd  want 
a  bigger  hole.  She  does  so  love  to  make  a  beautiful 
black  latticework  bridge  across  a  yawning  white 
china  sea  —  and  you'd  think  the  safety  of  an 
army  depended  on  the  way  each  plank  was  laid, 
too,"  she  concluded. 

Aunt  Hannah  smiled  tranquilly,  but  she  did 
not  speak. 

"  I  suppose  you  don't  happen  to  know  if  Cyril 
does  wear  big  holes  in  his  socks,"  resumed  Billy, 
after  a  moment's  silence.  "  If  you'll  believe  it* 

73 


74  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

that  thought  popped  into  my  head  last  night  when 
Cyril  was  playing  that  concerto  so  superbly.  It 
did,  actually  —  right  in  the  middle  of  the  adagio 
movement,  too.  And  in  spite  of  my  joy  and  pride 
in  the  music  I  had  all  I  could  do  to  keep  from 
nudging  Marie  right  there  and  then  and  asking 
her  whether  or  not  the  dear  man  was  hard  on 
his  hose." 

"  Billy!  "  gasped  the  shocked  Aunt  Hannah; 
but  the  gasp  broke  at  once  into  what  —  in  Aunt 
Hannah  —  passed  for  a  chuckle.  "  If  I  remember 
.rightly,  when  I  was  there  at  the  house  with  you 
at  first,  my  dear,  William  told  me  that  Cyril 
wouldn't  wear  any  sock  after  it  came  to  mending." 

"  Horrors! "  Billy  waved  her  stocking  in 
mock  despair.  "  That  will  never  do  in  the  world. 
It  would  break  Marie's  heart.  You  know  how  she 
dotes  on  darning." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  smiled  Aunt  Hannah.  "  By 
the  way,  where  is  she  this  morning?  " 

Billy  raised  her  eyebrows  quizzically. 

"  Gone  to  look  at  an  apartment  in  Cambridge,  I 
believe.  Really,  Aunt  Hannah,  between  her  home- 
hunting  in  the  morning,  and  her  furniture-and- 
rug  hunting  in  the  afternoon,  and  her  poring  over 
house-plans  in  the  evening,  I  can't  get  her  to 
attend  to  her  clothes  at  all.  Never  did  I  see  a 
bride  so  utterly  indifferent  to  her  trousseau  as 


M.  J.  Opens  the  Game  75 

Marie  Hawthorn  —  and  her  wedding  less  than 
a  month  away!  " 

"  But  she's  been  shopping  with  you  once  or 
twice,  since  she  came  back,  hasn't  she?  And  she 
said  it  was  for  her  trousseau." 

Billy  laughed. 

"  Her  trousseau!  Oh,  yes,  it  was.  I'll  tell  you 
what  she  got  for  her  trousseau  that  first  day. 
We  started  out  to  buy  two  hats,  some  lace  for 
her  wedding  gown,  some  crepe  de  Chine  and  net 
for  a  little  dinner  frock,  and  some  silk  for  a  couple 
of  waists  to  go  with  her  tailored  suit ;  and  what  did 
we  get?  We  purchased  a  new-style  egg-beater  and 
a  set  of  cake  tins.  Marie  got  into  the  kitchen  de- 
partment and  I  simply  couldn't  get  her  out  of  it. 
But  the  next  day  I  was  not  to  be  inveigled  below 
stairs  by  any  plaintive  prayer  for  a  nutmeg- 
grater  or  a  soda  spoon.  She  shopped  that  day,  and 
to  some  purpose.  We  accomplished  lots." 

Aunt  Hannah  looked  a  little  concerned. 

"  But  she  must  have  some  things  started!  " 

"  Oh,  she  has  —  'most  everything  now.  I've 
seen  to  that.  Of  course  her  outfit  is  very  simple, 
anyway.  Marie  hasn't  much  money,  you  know, 
and  she  simply  won't  let  me  do  half  what  I  want 
to.  Still,  she  had  saved  up  some  money,  and  I've 
finally  convinced  her  that  a  trousseau  doesn't 
consist  of  egg-beaters  and  cake  tins,  and  that 


Miss  Billy's  Decision 


Cyril  would  want  her  to  look  pretty.  That  name 
will  fetch  her  every  time,  and  I've  learned  to 
use  it  beautifully.  I  think  if  I  told  her  Cyril 
approved  of  short  hair  and  near-sightedness  she'd 
)  cut  off  her  golden  locks  and  don  spectacles  on  the 
spot." 

Aunt  Hannah  laughed  softly. 

"  What  a  child  you  are,  Billy!  Besides,  just 
as  if  Marie  were  the  only  one  in  the  house  who  is 
ruled  by  a  magic  name!  " 

The  color  deepened  in  Billy's  cheeks. 

"  Well,  of  course,  any  girl  —  cares  something  — 
for  the  man  she  loves.  Just  as  if  I  wouldn't  do 
anything  in  the  world  I  could  for  Bertram!  " 

"  Oh,  that  makes  me  think  ;  who  was  that  young 
woman  Bertram  was  talking  with  last  evening  — 
just  after  he  left  us,  I  mean?  " 

"  Miss  Winthrop  —  Miss  Marguerite  Winthrop. 
Bertram  is  —  is  painting  her  portrait,  you  know." 

"  Oh,  is  that  the  one?  "  murmured  Aunt  Han- 
nah. "  Hm-m;  well,  she  has  a  beautiful  face." 

"  Yes,  she  has."  Billy  spoke  very  cheerfully. 
She  even  hummed  a  little  tune  as  she  carefully 
selected  a  needle  from  the  cushion  in  her  basket. 

"  There's  a  peculiar  something  in  her  face," 
mused  Aunt  Hannah,  aloud. 

The  little  tune  stopped  abruptly,  ending  in  a 
nervous  laugh. 


M.  J.  Opens  the  Game  77 

"  Dear  me!  I  wonder  how  it  feels  to  have  a 
peculiar  something  in  your  face.  Bertram,  too, 
says  she  has  it.  He's  trying  to  '  catch  it,'  he  says. 
I  wonder  now  —  if  he  does  catch  it,  does  she  lose 
it?  "  Flippant  as  were  the  words,  the  voice  that 
uttered  them  shook  a  little. 

Aunt  Hannah  smiled  indulgently  —  Aunt  Han- 
nah had  heard  only  the  flippancy,  not  the  shake. 

"  I  don't  know,  my  dear.  You  might  ask  him 
this  afternoon." 

Billy  made  a  sudden  movement.  The  china 
egg  in  her  lap  rolled  to  the  floor. 

"  Oh,  but  I  don't  see  him  this  afternoon,"  she 
said  lightly,  as  she  stooped  to  pick  up  the  egg. 

"Why,  I'm  sure  he  told  me  —  "  Aunt  Han- 
nah's sentence  ended  in  a  questioning  pause. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  nodded  Billy,  brightly;  "but 
he's  told  me  something  since.  He  isn't  going. 
He  telephoned  me  this  morning.  Miss  Winthrop 
wanted  the  sitting  changed  from  to-morrow  to 
this  afternoon.  He  said  he  knew  I'd  under- 
stand." 

"Why,  yes;  but  —  "  Aunt  Hannah  did  not 
finish  her  sentence.  The  whir  of  an  electric  bell 
had  sounded  through  the  house.  A  few  moments 
later  Rosa  appeared  in  the  open  doorway. 

"  It's  Mr.  Arkwright,  Miss.  He  said  as  how 
he  had  brought  the  music,"  she  announced. 


Miss  Billy's  Decision 


"  Tell  him  I'll  be  down  at  once,"  directed  the 
mistress  of  Hillside. 

As  the  maid  disappeared,  Billy  put  aside  her 
work  and  sprang  lightly  to  her  feet. 

"  Now  wasn't  that  nice  of  him?  We  were  talk- 
ing last  night  about  some  duets  he  had,  and  he 
said  he'd  bring  them  over.  I  didn't  know  he'd 
come  so  soon,  though." 

Billy  had  almost  reached  the  bottom  of  the  stair- 
way, when  a  low,  familiar  strain  of  music  drifted 
out  from  the  living-room.  Billy  caught  her  breath, 
and  held  her  foot  suspended.  The  next  moment 
the  familiar  strain  of  music  had  become  a  lullaby 
—  one  of  Billy's  own  —  and  sung  now  by  a  melting 
tenor  voice  that  lingered  caressingly  and  under- 
standingly  on  every  tender  cadence. 

Motionless  and  almost  breathless,  Billy  waited 
until  the  last  low  "  lul-la-by "  vibrated  into 
silence;  then  with  shining  eyes  and  outstretched 
hands  she  entered  the  living-room. 

"Oh,  that  was  —  beautiful,"  she  breathed. 

Arkwright  was  on  his  feet  instantly.  His  eyes, 
too,  were  alight. 

"I  could  not  resist  singing  it  just  once  — 
here,"  he  said  a  little  unsteadily,  as  their  hands 
met. 

"  But  to  hear  my  little  song  sung  like  that! 
I  couldn't  believe  it  was  mine,"  choked  Billy, 


M.  J.  Opens  the  Game  79 

still  plainly  very  much  moved.  "  You  sang  it  as 
I've  never  heard  it  sung  before." 

Arkwright  shook  his  head  slowly. 

"The  inspiration  of  the  room  —  that  is  all," 
he  said.  "  It  is  a  beautiful  song.  All  of  your  songs 
are  beautiful." 

Billy  blushed  rosily. 

"Thank  you.  You  know  —  more  of  them, 
then?  " 

"  I  think  I  know  them  all  —  unless  you  have 
some  new  ones  out.  Have  you  some  new  ones, 
lately?  " 

Billy  shook  her  head. 

"  No;  I  haven't  written  anything  since  last 
spring." 

"  But  you're  going  to?  " 

She  drew  a  long  sigh. 

"  Yes,  oh,  yes.  I  know  that  now  —  "  With  a 
swift  biting  of  her  lower  lip  Billy  caught  herself 
up  in  time.  As  if  she  could  tell  this  man,  this 
stranger,  what  she  had  told  Bertram  that  night 
by  the  fire  —  that  she  knew  that  now,  now  she 
would  write  beautiful  songs,  with  his  love,  and 
his  pride  in  her,  as  incentives.  "  Oh,  yes,  I  think 
I  shall  write  more  one  of  these  days,"  she  finished 
lightly.  "  But  come,  this  isn't  singing  duets!  I 
want  to  see  the  music  you  brought." 

They  sang  then,  one  after  another  of  the  duets. 


so  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

To  Billy,  the  music  was  new  and  interesting. 
To  Billy,  too,  it  was  new  (and  interesting)  to  hear 
her  own  voice  blending  with  another's  so  perfectly 
—  to  feel  herself  a  part  of  such  exquisite  harmony. 

"  Oh,  oh!  "  she  breathed  ecstatically,  after  the 
last  note  of  a  particularly  beautiful  phrase.  "  I 
never  knew  before  how  lovely  it  was  to  sing 
duets." 

"  Nor  I,"  replied  Arkwright  in  a  voice  that  was 
not  quite  steady. 

Arkwright's  eyes  were  on  the  enraptured  face 
of  the  girl  so  near  him.  It  was  well,  perhaps, 
that  Billy  did  not  happen  to  turn  and  catch  their 
expression.  Still,  it  might  have  been  better  if 
she  had  turned,  after  all.  But  Billy's  eyes  were 
on  the  music  before  her.  Her  fingers  were  busy 
with  the  fluttering  pages,  searching  for  another 
duet. 

"  Didn't  you?  "  she  murmured  abstractedly. 
"I  supposed  you'd  sung  them  before;  but  you 
see  I  never  did  —  until  the  other  night.  There, 
let's  try  this  one!  " 

"  This  one  "  was  followed  by  another  and  an- 
other. Then  Billy  drew  a  long  breath. 

"There!  that  must  positively  be  the  last," 
she  declared  reluctantly.  "  I'm  so  hoarse  now 
I  can  scarcely  croak.  You  see,  I  don't 
to  sing,  really." 


M.  J.  Opens  the  Game  81 

"  Don't  you?  You  sing  far  better  than  some 
who  do,  anyhow, "retorted  the  man,  warmly. 

"  Thank  you,"  smiled  Billy;  "  that  was  nice 
of  you  to  say  so  —  for  my  sake  —  and  the  others 
aren't  here  to  care.  But  tell  me  of  yourself.  I 
haven't  had  a  chance  to  ask  you  yet ;  and  —  I 
think  you  said  Mary  Jane  was  going  to  study  for 
Grand  Opera." 

Arkwright  laughed  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  She  is;  but,  as  I  told  Calderwell,  she's  quite 
likely  to  bring  up  in  vaudeville." 

"Calderwell!  Do  you  mean  —  Hugh  Calder- 
well? "  Billy's  cheeks  showed  a  deeper  color. 

The  man  gave  an  embarrassed  little  laugh.  He 
had  not  meant  to  let  that  name  slip  out  just  yet. 

"  Yes."  He  hesitated,  then  plunged  on  reck- 
lessly. "  We  tramped  half  over  Europe  together 
last  summer." 

"  Did  you?  "  Billy  left  her  seat  at  the  piano 
for  one  nearer  the  fire.  "  But  this  isn't  telling 
me  about  your  own  plans,"  she  hurried  on  a  little 
precipitately.  '  You've  studied  before,  of  course. 
Your  voice  shows  that." 

"Oh,  yes;  I've  studied  singing  several  years, 
and  I've  had  a  year  or  two  of  church  work,  be- 
sides a  little  concert  practice  of  a  mild  sort." 

"  Have  you  begun  here,  yet?  " 

"  Y-yes,  I've  had  my  voice  tried." 


82  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

Billy  sat  erect  with  eager  interest. 

"  They  liked  it,  of  course?  " 

Arkwright  laughed. 

"  I'm  not  saying  that." 

"  No,  but  I  am,"  declared  Billy,  with  conviction. 
"  They  couldn't  help  liking  it." 

Arkwright  laughed  again.  Just  how  well  they 
had  "  liked  it  "  he  did  not  intend  to  say.  Their 
remarks  had  been  quite  too  flattering  to  repeat 
even  to  this  very  plainly  interested  young  woman 
— idelightful  and  heart-warming  as  was  this  same 
show  of  interest,  to  himself. 

"  Thank  you,"  was  all  he  said. 

Billy  gave  an  excited  little  bounce  in  her 
chair. 

"And  you'll  begin  to  learn  r61es  right  away?  " 

"  I  already  have,  some  —  after  a  fashion  —  be- 
fore I  came  here." 

"Really?  How  splendid!  Why,  then  you'll 
be  acting  them  next  right  on  the  Boston  Opera 
House  stage,  and  we'll  all  go  to  hear  you.  How 
perfectly  lovely!  I  can  hardly  wait." 

Arkwright  laughed  —  but  his  eyes  glowed  with 
pleasure. 

"  Aren't  you  hurrying  things  a  little? "  he 
ventured. 

"But  they  do  let  the  students  appear,"  ar- 
gued Billy.  "  I  knew  a  girl  last  year  who  went  on 


M.  J.  Opens  the  Game  83 

in  '  Aida,'  and  she  was  a  pupil  at  the  School. 
She  sang  first  in  a  Sunday  concert,  then  they  put 
her  in  the  bill  for  a  Saturday  night.  She  did 
splendidly  —  so  well  that  they  gave  her  a  chance 
later  at  a  subscription  performance.  Oh,  you'll 
be  there  —  and  soon,  too!  " 

11  Thank  you!  I  only  wish  the  powers  that 
could  put  me  there  had  your  flattering  enthusiasm 
on  the  matter,"  he  smiled. 

"  I  don't  worry  any,"  nodded  Billy,  "  only 
please  don't  '  arrive  '  too  soon  —  not  before  the 
wedding,  you  know,"  she  added  jokingly.  "  We 
shall  be  too  busy  to  give  you  proper  attention 
until  after  that." 

A  peculiar  look  crossed  Arkwright's  face. 

'  The  —  wedding?  "  he  asked,  a  little  faintly. 

"  Yes.  Didn't  you  know?  My  friend,  Miss 
Hawthorn,  is  to  marry  Mr.  Cyril  Henshaw  next 
month." 

The  man  opposite  relaxed  visibly. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Hawthorn!  No,  I  didn't  know," 
he  murmured;  then,  with  sudden  astonishment 
he  added:  "And  to  Mr.  Cyril,  the  musician, 
did  you  say?  " 

'  Yes.    You  seem  surprised." 

"  I  am."  Arkwright  paused,  then  went  on 
almost  defiantly.  "  You  see,  Calderwell  was 
telling  me  only  last  September  how  very  un- 


84  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

marriageable  all  the  Henshaw  brothers  were.  So 
I  am  surprised  —  naturally,"  finished  Arkwright, 
as  he  rose  to  take  his  leave. 

A  swift  crimson  stained  Billy's  face. 

"But  surely  you  must  know  that  —  that  —  ' 

;<  That  he  has  a  right  to  change  his  mind,  of 
course,"  supplemented  Arkwright  smilingly,  com- 
ing to  her  rescue  in  the  evident  confusion  that 
would  not  let  her  finish  her  sentence.  "  But 
Calderwell  made  it  so  emphatic,  you  see,  about 
all  the  brothers.  He  said  that  William  had  lost 
his  heart  long  ago;  that  Cyril  hadn't  any  to  lose; 
and  that  Bertram  —  " 

"But,  Mr.  Arkwright,  Bertram  is  —  is- 
Billy  had  moistened  her  lips,  and  plunged  hurriedly 
in  to  prevent  Arkwright's  next  words.  But  again 
was  she  unable  to  finish  her  sentence,  and  again 
was  she  forced  to  listen  to  a  very  different  com- 
pletion from  the  smiling  lips  of  the  man  at  her 
side. 

"Is  an  artist,  of  course,"  said  Arkwright. 
"That's  what  Calderwell  declared  —  that  it 
would  always  be  the  tilt  of  a  chin  or  the  curve 
of  a  cheek  that  the  artist  loved  —  to  paint." 

Billy  drew  back  suddenly.  Her  face  paled. 
As  if  now  she  could  tell  this  man  that  Bertram 
Henshaw  was  engaged  to  her!  He  would  find  it 
out  soon,  of  course,  for  himself;  and  perhaps  he, 


M.  J.  Opens  the  Game  85 

like  Hugh   Calderwell,   would  think  it  was  the 
curve  of  her  cheek,  or  the  tilt  of  her  chin  — 

Billy  lifted  her  chin  very  defiantly  now  as  she 
held  out  her  hand  in  good-by. 


CHAPTER  IX 

A   RUG,   A   PICTURE,   AND  A   GIRL  AFRAID 

THANKSGIVING  came.  Once  again  the  Henshaw 
brothers  invited  Billy  and  Aunt  Hannah  to  spend 
the  day  with  them.  This  time,  however,  there 
was  to  be  an  additional  guest  present  in  the  per- 
son of  Marie  Hawthorn. 

And  what  a  day  it  was,  for  everything  and  every- 
body concerned!  First  the  Strata  itself:  from 
Dong  Ling's  kitchen  in  the  basement  to  Cyril's 
domain  on  the  top  floor,  the  house  was  as  spick- 
and-span  as  Pete's  eager  old  hands  could  make 
it.  In  the  drawing-room  and  in  Bertram's  den 
and  studio,  great  clusters  of  pink  roses  perfumed 
the  air,  and  brightened  the  sombre  richness  of 
the  old-time  furnishings.  Before  the  open  fire 
in  the  den  a  sleek  gray  cat  —  adorned  with  a  huge 
ribbon  bow  the  exact  shade  of  the  roses  (Bertram 
had  seen  to  that !)  —  winked  and  blinked  sleepy 
yellow  eyes.  In  Bertram's  studio  the  latest  "  Face 
of  a  Girl  "  had  made  way  for  a  group  of  canvases 
and  plaques,  every  one  of  which  showed  Billy 
Neilson  in  one  pose  or  another.  Up-stairs,  where 

86 


A  Rug,  a  Picture,  and  a  Girl        87 

William's  chaos  of  treasures  filled  shelves  and 
cabinets,  the  place  of  honor  was  given  to  a  small 
black  velvet  square  on  which  rested  a  pair  of 
quaint  Battersea  enamel  mirror  knobs.  In  Cyril's 
rooms  —  usually  so  austerely  bare  —  a  handsome 
Oriental  rug  and  several  curtain-draped  chairs 
hinted  at  purchases  made  at  the  instigation  of 
a  taste  other  than  his  own.  £ 

When  the  doorbell  rang  Pete  admitted  the 
ladies  with  a  promptness  that  was  suggestive 
of  surreptitious  watching  at  some  window.  On 
Pete's  face  the  dignity  of  his  high  office  and  the 
delight  of  the  moment  were  fighting  for  mastery. 
The  dignity  held  firmly  through  Mrs.  Stetson's 
friendly  greeting;  but  it  fled  in  defeat  when  Billy 
Neilson  stepped  over  the  threshold  with  a  cheery 
"  Good  morning,  Pete." 

"  Laws!  But  it's  good  to  be  seein'  you  here 
again,"  stammered  the  man,  —  delight  now  in 
sole  possession. 

"  She'll  be  coming  to  stay,  one  of  these  days, 
Pete,"  smiled  the  eldest  Henshaw,  hurrying  for- 
1  ward. 

"  I  wish  she  had  now,"  whispered  Bertram,  who, 
in  spite  of  William's  quick  stride,  had  reached 
Billy's  side  first. 

From  the  stairway  came  the  patter  of  a  man's 
slippered  feet. 


88  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

"  The  rug  has  come,  and  the  curtains,  too," 
called  a  "  householder  "  sort  of  voice  that  few 
would  have  recognized  as  belonging  to  Cyril 
Henshaw.  "  You  must  all  come  up-stairs  and 
see  them  after  dinner."  The  voice,  apparently, 
spoke  to  everybody;  but  the  eyes  of  the  owner 
of  the  voice  plainly  saw  only  the  fair-haired  young 
woman  who  stood  a  little  in  the  shadow  behind 
Billy,  and  who  was  looking  about  her  now  as  at 
something  a  little  fearsome,  but  very  dear. 

"  You  know  —  I've  never  been  —  where  you 
live  —  before,"  explained  Marie  Hawthorn  in  a 
low,  vibrant  tone,  when  Cyril  bent  over  her  to 
take  the  furs  from  her  shoulders. 

In  Bertram's  den  a  little  later,  as  hosts  and 
guests  advanced  toward  the  fire,  the  sleek  gray 
cat  rose,  stretched  lazily,  and  turned  her  head 
with  majestic  condescension. 

"  Well,  Spunkie,  come  here,"  commanded  Billy, 
snapping  her  fingers  at  the  slow-moving  creature 
on  the  hearthrug.  "  Spunkie,  when  I  am  your 
mistress,  you'll  have  to  change  either  your  name 
or  your  nature.  As  if  I  were  going  to  have  such 
a  bunch  of  independent  moderation  as  you  mas- 
querading as  an  understudy  to  my  frisky  little 
Spunk!  " 

Everybody  laughed.  William  regarded  his 
namesake  with  fond  eyes  as  he  said: 


A  Rug,  a  Picture,  and  a  Girl        89 

"  Spunkie  doesn't  seem  to  be  worrying."  The 
cat  had  jumped  into  Billy's  lap  with  a  matter- 
of-course  air  that  was  unmistakable  —  and  to  Ber- 
tram, adorable.  Bertram's  eyes,  as  they  rested 
on  Billy,  were  even  fonder  than  were  his 
brother's. 

"I  don't  think  any  one  is  —  worrying"  he 
said  with  quiet  emphasis. 

Billy  smiled. 

"  I  should  think  they  might  be,"  she  answered. 
"  Only  think  how  dreadfully  upsetting  I  was  in 
the  first  place!  " 

William's  beaming  face  grew  a  little  stern. 

"  Nobody  knew  it  but  Kate  —  and  she  didn't 
know  it;  she  only  imagined  it,"  he  said  tersely. 

Billy  shook  her  head. 

"  I'm  not  so  sure,"  she  demurred.  "  As  I  look 
back  at  it  now,  I  think  I  can  discern  a  few  evi- 
dences myself  —  that  I  was  upsetting.  I  was  a 
bother  to  Bertram  in  his  painting,  I  am  sure." 

'  You  were  an  inspiration,"  corrected  Bertram. 
1  Think  of  the  posing  you  did  for  me." 

A  swift  something  like  a  shadow  crossed  Billy's 
face;  but  before  her  lover  could  question  its 
meaning,  it  was  gone. 

"  And  I  know  I  was  a  torment  to  Cyril."  Billy 
had  turned  to  the  musician  now. 

"  Well,  I  admit  you  were  a  little  —  upsetting, 


90  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

at  times,"  retorted  that  individual,  with  something 
of  his  old  imperturbable  rudeness. 

"  Nonsense!  "  cut  in  William,  sharply.  "  You 
were  never  anything  but  a  comfort  in  the  house, 
|B illy,  my  dear  —  and  you  never  will  be." 

;<  Thank  you,"  murmured  Billy,  demurely. 
"  I'll  remember  that  —  when  Pete  and  I  disagree 
about  the  table  decorations,  and  Dong  Ling 
doesn't  like  the  way  I  want  my  soup  seasoned." 

An  anxious  frown  showred  on  Bertram's  face. 

"  Billy,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  as  the  others 
laughed  at  her  sally,  "  you  needn't  have  Pete 
nor  Dong  Ling  here  if  you  don't  want  them." 

"  Don't  want  them!  "  echoed  Billy,  indignantly. 
"  Of  course  I  want  them!  " 

"  But  —  Pete  is  old,  and  —  " 

"  Yes;  and  where' s  he  grown  old?  For  whom 
has  he  worked  the  last  fifty  years,  while  he's 
been  growing  old?  I  wonder  if  you  think  I'd 
let  Pete  leave  this  house  as  long  as  he  wants  to 
stay !  As  for  Dong  Ling  —  ' 

A  sudden  movement  of  Bertram's  hand  ar- 
rested her  words.  She  looked  up  to  find  Pete  in 
the  doorway. 

"  Dinner  is  served,  sir,"  announced  the  old 
butler,  his  eyes  on  his  master's  face. 

William  rose  with  alacrity,  and  gave  his  arm 
to  Aunt  Hannah. 


A  Rug,  a  Picture,  and  a  Girl        91 

"  Well,  I'm  sure  we're  ready  for  dinner,"  he 
declared. 

It  was  a  good  dinner,  and  it  was  well  served. 
It  could  scarcely  have  been  otherwise  with  Dong 
Ling  in  the  kitchen  and  Pete  in  the  dining-room  • 
doing  their  utmost  to  please.  But  even  had  the 
turkey  been  tough  instead  of  tender,  and  even 
had  the  pies  been  filled  with  sawdust  instead  of 
with  delicious  mincemeat,  it  is  doubtful  if  four 
at  the  table  would  have  known  the  difference: 
Cyril  and  Marie  at  one  end  were  discussing  where 
to  put  their  new  sideboard  in  their  dining-room, 
and  Bertram  and  Billy  at  the  other  were  talking 
of  the  next  Thanksgiving,  when,  according  to 
Bertram,  the  Strata  would  haveXthe  "  dearest 
little  mistress  that  ever  was  born."  As  if,  under 
these  circumstances,  the  tenderness  of  the  turkey 
or  the  toothsomeness  of  the  mince  pie  mattered! 
To  Aunt  Hannah  and  William,  in  the  centre  of 
the  table,  however,  it  did  matter;  so  it  was  well, 
of  course,  that  the  dinner  was  a  good  one. 

"  And  now,"  said  Cyril,  when  dinner  was  over, 
"  suppose  you  come  up  and  see  the  rug." 

In  compliance  with  this  suggestion,  the  six 
trailed  up  the  long  flights  of  stairs  then,  Billy 
carrying  an  extra  shawl  for  Aunt  Hannah  — 
Cyril's  rooms  were  always  cool. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  knew  we  should  need  it,"  she  nodded 


92  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

to  Bertram,  as  she  picked  up  the  shawl  from  the 
hall  stand  where  she  had  left  it  when  she  came 
in.  "  That's  why  I  brought  it." 

"  Oh,  my  grief  and  conscience,  Cyril,  how  can 
you  stand  it?  —  to  climb  stairs  like  this,"  panted 
Aunt  Hannah,  as  she  reached  the  top  of  the  last 
flight  and  dropped  breathlessly  into  the  nearest 
chair  —  from  which  Marie  had  rescued  a  curtain 
just  in  time. 

"  Well,  I'm  not  sure  I  could  —  if  I  were  always 
to  eat  a  Thanksgiving  dinner  just  before,"  laughed 
Cyril.  "  Maybe  I  ought  to  have  waited  and  let 
you  rest  an  hour  or  two." 

"  But  'twould  have  been  too  dark,  then,  to  seethe 
rug,"  objected  Marie.  "  It's  a  genuine  Persian  — 
a  Kirman,  you  know;  and  I'm  so  proud  of  it," 
she  added,  turning  to  the  others.  "  I  wanted  you 
to  see  the  colors  by  daylight.  Cyril  likes  it  better, 
anyhow,  in  the  daytime." 

"  Fancy  Cyril  liking  any  sort  of  a  rug  at  any 
time,"  chuckled  Bertram,  his  eyes  on  the  rich, 
softly  blended  colors  of  the  rug  before  him.  "  Hon- 
estly, Miss  Marie,"  he  added,  turning  to  the 
little  bride  elect,  "  how  did  you  ever  manage  to 
get  him  to  buy  any  rug?  He  won't  have  so  much 
as  a  ravelling  on  the  floor  up  here  to  walk  on." 

A  startled  dismay  came  into  Marie's  blue 
eyes. 


A  Rug,  a  Picture,  and  a  G-irl        93 

"  Why,  I  thought  he  wanted  rugs,"  she  fal- 
tered. "I'm  sure  he  said  —  " 

"  Of  course  I  want  rugs,"  interrupted  Cyril, 
irritably.  "  I  want  them  everywhere  except  in 
my  own  especial  den.  You  don't  suppose  I  want 
to  hear  other  people  clattering  over  bare  floors 
all  day,  do  you?  " 

"  Of  course  not!  "  Bertram's  face  was  preter- 
naturally  grave  as  he  turned  to  the  little  music 
teacher.  "  I  hope,  Miss  Marie,  that  you  wear 
rubber  heels  on  your  shoes,"  he  observed  solicit- 
ously. 

Even  Cyril  laughed  at  this,  though  all  he  said 
was: 

"  Come,  come,  I  got  you  up  here  to  look  at  the 
rug." 

Bertram,  however,  was  not  to  be  silenced. 

"  And  another  thing,  Miss  Marie,"  he  resumed, 
with  the  air  of  a  true  and  tried  adviser.  "  Just 
let  me  give  you  a  pointer.  I've  lived  with  your 
future  husband  a  good  many  years,  and  I  know 
what  I'm  talking  about." 

"  Bertram,  be  still,"  growled  Cyril. 

Bertram  refused  to  be  still. 

"  Whenever  you  want  to  know  anything  about 
Cyril,  listen  to  his  playing.  For  instance:  if, 
after  dinner,  you  hear  a  dreamy  waltz  or  a  sleepy 
nocturne,  you  may  know  that  all  is  well.  But  if 


94  Miss  Billy's  Decision 


on  your  ears  there  falls  anything  like  a  dirge,  or 
the  wail  of  a  lost  spirit  gone  mad,  better  look  to 
your  soup  and  see  if  it  hasn't  been  scorched,  or 
taste  of  your  pudding  and  see  if  you  didn't  put 
in  salt  instead  of  sugar." 

"  Bertram,  will  you  be  still?  "  cut  in  Cyril, 
testily,  again. 

"  After  all,  judging  from  what  Billy  tells  me," 
resumed  Bertram,  cheerfully,  "  what  I've  said 
won't  be  so  important  to  you,  for  you  aren't  the 
kind  that  scorches  soups  or  uses  salt  for  sugar. 
So  maybe  I'd  better  put  it  to  you  this  way :  if  you 
want  a  new  sealskin  coat  or  an  extra  diamond 
tiara,  tackle  him  when  he  plays  like  this!  "  And 
with  a  swift  turn  Bertram  dropped  himself  to  the 
piano  stool  and  dashed  into  a  rollicking  melody 
that  half  the  newsboys  of  Boston  were  whistling. 

What  happened  next  was  a  surprise  to  every  one. 
Bertram,  very  much  as  if  he  were  a  naughty 
little  boy,  was  jerked  by  a  wrathful  brother's 
hand  off  the  piano  stool.  The  next  moment  the 
wrathful  brother  himself  sat  at  the  piano,  and 
there  burst  on  five  pairs  of  astonished  ears  a 
crashing  dissonance  which  was  but  the  prelude 
to  music  such  as  few  of  the  party  often  heard. 

Spellbound  they  listened  while  rippling  runs 
and  sonorous  harmonies  filled  the  room  to  over- 
flowing, as  if  under  the  fingers  of  the  player  there 


A  Eug,  a  Picture,  and  a  Girl        &5 

were  • —  not  the  keyboard  of  a  piano  —  but  the 
violins,  flutes,  cornets,  trombones,  bass  viols 
and  kettledrums  of  a  full  orchestra. 

Billy,  perhaps,  of  them  all,  best  understood. 
She  knew  that  in  those  tripping  melodies  and 
crashing  chords  were  Cyril's  joy  at  the  presence 
of  Marie,  his  wrath  at  the  flippancy  of  Bertram, 
his  ecstasy  at  that  for  which  the  rug  and  curtains 
stood  —  the  little  woman  sewing  in  the  radiant 
circle  of  a  shaded  lamp.  Billy  knew  that  all  this 
and  more  were  finding  voice  at  Cyril's  finger  tips. 
The  others,  too,  understood  in  a  way;  but  they, 
unlike  Billy,  were  not  in  the  habit  of  finding  on 
a  few  score  bits  of  wood  and  ivory  a  vent  for  their 
moods  and  fancies. 

The  music  was  softer  now.  The  resounding 
chords  and  purling  runs  had  become  a  bell-like 
melody  that  wound  itself  in  and  out  of  a  maze  of 
exquisite  harmonies,  now  hiding,  now  coming  out 
clear  and  unafraid,  like  a  mountain  stream  emer- 
ging into  a  sunlit  meadow  from  the  leafy  shadows 
of  its  forest  home. 

In  a  breathless  hush  the  melody  quivered  into 
silence.  It  was  Bertram  who  broke  the  pause 
with  a  long-drawn  : 

"By  George!"  Then,  a  little  unsteadily: 
"  If  it's  I  that  set  you  going  like  that,  old  chap, 
I'll  come  up  and  play  ragtime  every  day !  " 


96  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

Cyril  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  got  to  his 
feet. 

"  If  you've  seen  all  you  want  of  the  rug  we'll 
go  down-stairs,"  he  said  nonchalantly. 

"  But  we  haven't!  "  chorussed  several  indignant 
voices.  And  for  the  next  few  minutes  not  even 
the  owner  of  the  beautiful  Kirman  could  find 
any  fault  with  the  quantity  or  the  quality  of  the 
attention  bestowed  on  his  new  possession.  But 
Billy,  under  cover  of  the  chatter,  said  reproach- 
fully in  his  ear: 

"  Oh,  Cyril,  to  think  you  can  play  like  that  — 
and  won't  —  on  demand!  " 

"  I  can't  —  on  demand,"  shrugged  Cyril  again. 

On  the  way  down-stairs  they  stopped  at 
William's  rooms. 

"  I  want  you  to  see  a  couple  of  Batterseas  I 
got  last  week,"  cried  the  collector  eagerly,  as  he 
led  the  way  to  the  black  velvet  square.  "  They're 
fine  —  and  I  think  she  looks  like  you,"  he  finished, 
turning  to  Billy,  and  holding  out  one  of  the  knobs, 
on  which  was  a  beautifully  executed  miniature  of 
a  young  girl  with  dark,  dreamy  eyes. 

"  Oh,  how  pretty! "  exclaimed  Marie,  over 
Billy's  shoulder.  "  But  what  are  they?  " 

The  collector  turned,  his  face  alight. 

"  Mirror  knobs.  I've  got  lots  of  them.  Would 
you  like  to  see  them — really?  They're  right  here." 


A  Rug,  a  Picture,  and  a  Girl        97 

The  next  minute  Marie  found  herself  looking 
into  a  cabinet  where  lay  a  score  or  more  of  round 
and  oval  discs  of  glass,  porcelain,  and  metal, 
framed  in  silver,  gilt,  and  brass,  and  mounted  on 
long  spikes. 

"Oh,  how  pretty,"  cried  Marie  again;  "but 
how  —  how  queer!  Tell  me  about  them,  please." 

William  drew  a  long  breath.  His  eyes  glistened. 
William  loved  to  talk  —  when  he  had  a  curio 
and  a  listener. 

"  I  will.  Our  great-grandmothers  used  them, 
you  know,  to  support  their  mirrors,  or  to  fasten 
back  their  curtains,"  he  explained  ardently. 
"  Now  here's  another  Battersea  enamel,  but  it 
isn't  so  good  as  my  new  ones  —  that  face  is  almost 
a  caricature." 

"But  what  a  beautiful  ship  —  on  that  round 
one!  "  exclaimed  Marie.  "  And  what's  this  one? 
—  glass?" 

"Yes;  but  that's  not  so  rare  as  the  others. 
Still,  it's  pretty  enough.  Did  you  notice  this 
one,  with  the  bright  red  and  blue  and  green  on 
the  white  background?  —  regular  Chinese  mode 
of  decoration,  that  is." 

"  Er  —  any  time,  William,"  began  Bertram, 
mischievously;  but  William  did  not  seem  to 
hear. 

"  Now  in  this  corner,"  he  went  on,  warming 


98  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

to  his  subject,  "  are  the  enamelled  porcelains. 
They  were  probably  made  at  the  Worcester  works 
—  England,  you  know ;  and  I  think  many  of  them 
are  quite  as  pretty  as  the  Batterseas.  You  see 
it  was  at  Worcester  that  they  invented  that 
variation  of  the  transfer  printing  process  that 
they  called  bat  printing,  where  they  used  oil  in- 
stead of  ink,  and  gelatine  instead  of  paper.  Now 
engravings  for  that  kind  of  printing  were  usually 
in  stipple  work  —  dots,  you  know  —  so  the  prints 
on  these  knobs  can  easily  be  distinguished  from 
those  of  the  transfer  printing.  See?  Now,  this 
one  is  —  " 

"  Er,  of  course,  William,  any  time  —  "  inter- 
posed Bertram  again,  his  eyes  twinkling. 

William  stopped  with  a  laugh. 

"  Yes,  I  know.  'Tis  time  I  talked  of  something 
else,  Bertram,"  he  conceded. 

"  But  'twas  lovely,  and  I  was  interested, 
really,"  claimed  Marie.  "  Besides,  there  are  such 
a  lot  of  things  here  that  I'd  like  to  see,"  she  fin- 
ished, turning  slowly  about. 

"  These  are  what  he  was  collecting  last  year," 
murmured  Billy,  hovering  over  a  small  cabinet 
where  were  some  beautiful  specimens  of  antique 
jewelry:  brooches,  necklaces,  armlets,  Rajah 
rings,  gjQ(3  anklets,  gorgeous  in  color  and  exquisite 
in  workmanship. 


A  Rug,  a  Picture,  and  a  Girl        99 

"  Well,  here  is  something  you  will  enjoy,"  de- 
clared Bertram,  with  an  airy  flourish.  "  Do 
you  see  those  teapots?  Well,  we  can  have  tea 
every  day  in  the  year,  and  not  use  one  of  them 
,  but  five  times.  I've  counted.  There  are  exactly 
seventy-three,"  he  concluded,  as  he  laughingly 
led  the  way  from  the  room. 

"  How  about  leap  year?  "  quizzed  Billy. 

"  Ho!  Trust  Will  to  find  another  '  Old  Blue  ' 
or  a  '  perfect  treasure  of  a  black  basalt '  by  that 
time,"  shrugged  Bertram. 

Below  William's  rooms  was  the  floor  once 
Bertram's,  but  afterwards  given  over  to  the  use 
of  Billy  and  Aunt  Hannah.  The  rooms  were  open 
to-day,  and  were  bright  with  sunshine  and  roses; 
but  they  were  very  plainly  unoccupied. 

"  And  you  don't  use  them  yet?  "  remonstrated 
Billy,  as  she  paused  at  an  open  door. 

"  No.  These  are  Mrs.  Bertram  Henshaw's 
rooms,"  said  the  youngest  Henshaw  brother  in  a 
voice  that  made  Billy  hurry  away  with  a  dimpling 
blush. 

11  They  were  Billy's  —  and  they  can  never  seem 
any  one's  but  Billy's,  now,"  declared  William  to 
Marie,  as  they  went  down  the  stairs. 

"  And  now  for  the  den  and  some  good  stories 
before  the  fire,"  proposed  Bertram,  as  the  six 
reached  the  first  floor  again. 


loo  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

"  But  we  haven't  seen  your  pictures,  yet," 
objected  Billy. 

Bertram  made  a  deprecatory  gesture. 

"There's  nothing  much  — "  he  began;  but 
he  stopped  at  once,  with  an  odd  laugh.  "  Well, 
I  sha'n't  say  that,"  he  finished,  flinging  open  the 
door  of  his  studio,  and  pressing  a  button  that 
flooded  the  room  with  light.  The  next  moment, 
as  they  stood  before  those  plaques  and  panels 
and  canvases  —  on  each  of  which  was  a  pictured 
"  Billy  "  —  they  understood  the  change  in  his 
sentence,  and  they  laughed  appreciatively. 

"  '  Much,'   indeed!  "   exclaimed  William. 

"  Oh,  how  lovely!  "  breathed  Marie. 

"  My  grief  and  conscience,  Bertram!  All  these 
—  and  of  Billy?  I  knew  you  had  a  good  many, 
but  —  "  Aunt  Hannah  paused  impotently,  her 
eyes  going  from  Bertram's  face  to  the  pictures 
again. 

"  But  how  —  when  did  you  do  them?  "  queried 
Marie. 

"  Some  of  them  from  memory.  More  of  them 
from  life.  A  lot  of  them  were  just  sketches  that 
I  did  when  she  was  here  in  the  house  four  or  five 
years  ago,"  answered  Bertram;  "  like  this, 
for  instance."  And  he  pulled  into  a  better  light 
a  picture  of  a  laughing,  dark-eyed  girl  holding 
against  her  cheek  a  small  gray  kitten,  with  alert, 


A  Rug,  a  Picture,  and  a  Girl       101 

bright  eyes.  "  The  original  and  only  Spunk," 
he  announced. 

"  What  a  dear  little  cat!  "   cried  Marie. 

"  You  should  have  seen  it  —  in  the  flesh,"  re-' 
,  marked  Cyril,  dryly.  "  No  paint  nor  painter 
could  imprison  that  untamed  bit  of  Satanic  mis- 
chief on  any  canvas  that  ever  grew!  " 

Everybody  laughed  —  everybody  but  Billy. 
Billy,  indeed,  of  them  all,  had  been  strangely 
silent  ever  since  they  entered  the  studio.  She 
stood  now  a  little  apart.  Her  eyes  were  wide,  and 
a  bit  frightened.  Her  fingers  were  twisting  the 
corners  of  her  handkerchief  nervously.  She  was 
looking  to  the  right  and  to  the  left,  and  everywhere 
she  saw  —  herself. 

Sometimes  it  was  her  full  face,  sometimes  her 
profile;  sometimes  there  were  only  her  eyes 
peeping  from  above  a  fan,  or  peering  from  out 
brown  shadows  of  nothingness.  Once  it  was 
merely  the  back  of  her  head  showing  the  mass  of 
waving  hair  with  its  high  lights  of  burnished 
bronze.  Again  it  was  still  the  back  of  her  head 
with  below  it  the  bare,  slender  neck  and  the  scarf- 
draped  shoulders.  In  this  picture  the  curve  of  a 
half-turned  cheek  showed  plainly,  and  in  the  back- 
ground was  visible  a  hand  holding  four  playing 
cards,  at  which  the  pictured  girl  was  evidently 
looking.  Sometimes  it  was  a  merry  Billy  with 


102  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

dancing  eyes;  sometimes  a  demure  Billy  with  long 
lashes  caressing  a  flushed  cheek.  Sometimes  it 
was  a  wistful  Billy  with  eyes  that  looked  straight 
into  yours  with  peculiar  appeal.  But  always  it 
was  —  Billy. 

"  There,  I  think  the  tilt  of  this  chin  is  perfect." 
It  was  Bertram  speaking. 

Billy  gave  a  sudden  cry.  Her  face  whitened. 
She  stumbled  forward. 

"No,  no,  Bertram,  you> — you  didn't  mean 
the  —  the  tilt  of  the  chin,"  she  faltered  wildly. 

The  man  turned  in  amazement. 

"Why  —  Billy!"  he  stammered.  "  Billy, 
what  is  it?  " 

The  girl  fell  back  at  once.  She  tried  to  laugh 
lightly.  She  had  seen  the  dismayed  questioning 
in  her  lover's  eyes,  and  in  the  eyes  of  William  and 
the  others. 

"  N-nothing,"  she  gesticulated  hurriedly.  "  It 
was  nothing  at  all,  truly." 

"  But,  Billy,  it  was  something."  Bertram's 
eyes  were  still  troubled.  "  Was  it  the  picture? 
I  thought  you  liked  this  picture." 

Billy  laughed  again  —  this  time  more  naturally. 

"Bertram,  I'm  ashamed  of  you- — expecting 
me  to  say  I  '  like  '  any  of  this,"  she  scolded,  with 
a  wave  of  her  hands  toward  the  omnipresent 
Billy.  "Wliy,  I  feel  as  if  I  were  in  a  room  with 


A  Rug,  a  Picture,  and  a  Girl       103 

a  thousand  mirrors,  and  that  I'd  been  discovered 
putting  rouge  on  my  cheeks  and  lampblack  on 
my  eyebrows! " 

William  laughed  fondly.  Aunt  Hannah  and 
Marie  gave  an  indulgent  smile.  Cyril  actually 
chuckled.  Bertram  only  still  wore  a  puzzled  ex- 
pression as  he  laid  aside  the  canvas  \  in  his 
hands. 

Billy  examined  intently  a  sketch  she  had  found 
with  its  back  to  the  wall.  It  was  not  a  pretty 
sketch;  it  was  not  even  a  finished  one,  and  Billy 
did  not  in  the  least  care  what  it  was.  But  her 
lips  cried  interestedly: 

"  Oh,  Bertram,  what  is  this?  " 

There  was  no  answer.  Bertram  was  still  en- 
gaged, apparently,  in  putting  away  some  sketches. 
Over  by  the  doorway  leading  to  the  den  Marie 
and  Aunt  Hannah,  followed  by  William  and  Cyril, 
were  just  disappearing  behind  a  huge  easel. 
In  another  minute  the  merry  chatter  of  their 
voices  came  from  the  room  beyond.  Bertram 
hurried  then  straight  across  the  studio  to  the 
girl  still  bending  over  the  sketch  in  the  corner. 

"Bertram!"  gasped  Billy,  as  a  kiss  brushed 
her  cheek. 

11  Pooh!  They're  gone.  Besides,  what  if  they 
did  see?  Billy,  what  was  the  matter  with  the 
tilt  of  that  chin?  " 


104  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

Billy  gave  an  hysterical  little  laugh  —  at  least, 
Bertram  tried  to  assure  himself  that  it  was  a 
laugh,  though  it  had  sounded  almost  like  a  sob. 

"  Bertram,  if  you  say  another  word  about  — 
about  the  tilt  of  that  chin,  I  shall  scream!  "  she 
panted. 

"Why,  Billy!" 

With  a  nervous  little  movement  Billy  turned 
and  began  to  reverse  the  canvases  nearest  her. 

"  Come,  sir,"  she  commanded  gayly.  "  Billy 
has  been  on  exhibition  quite  long  enough.  It  is 
high  time  she  was  turned  face  to  the  wall  to  med- 
itate, and  grow  more  modest." 

Bertram  did  not  answer.  Neither  did  he  make 
a  move  to  assist  her.  His  ardent  gray  eyes  were 
following  her  slim,  graceful  figure  admiringly. 

"  Billy,  it  doesn't  seem  true,  yet,  that  you're 
really  mine,"  he  said  at  last,  in  a  low  voice  shaken 
with  emotion. 

Billy  turned  abruptly.  A  peculiar  radiance 
shone  in  her  eyes  and  glorified  her  face.  As 
she  stood,  she  was  close  to  a  picture  on  an  easel 
and  full  in  the  soft  glow  of  the  shaded  lights 
above  it. 

"  Then  you  do  want  me,"  she  began,  "  —  just 
me!  —  not  to  —  "  she  stopped  short.  The  man 
opposite  had  taken  an  eager  step  toward  her.  On 
his  face  was  the  look  she  knew  so  well,  the  look 


A  Rug,  a  Picture,  and  a  Girl       105 

she  had  come  almost  to  dread  —  the  "  painting 
look." 

"  Billy,  stand  just  as  you  are,"  he  was  saying. 
"  Don't  move.  Jove!  But  that  effect  is  perfect 
with  those  dark  shadows  beyond,  and  just  your' 
hair  and  face  and  throat  showing.  I  declare, 
I've  half  a  mind  to  sketch  —  "  But  Billy,  with 
a  little  cry,  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  X 

A  JOB  FOR  PETE  —  AND  FOR  BERTRAM 

THE  early  days  in  December  were  busy  ones, 
certainly,  in  the  little  house  on  Corey  Hill.  Marie 
was  to  be  married  the  twelfth.  It  was  to  be  a  home 
wedding,  and  a  very  simple  one  —  according  to 
Billy,  and  according  to  what  Marie  had  said  it 
was  to  be.  Billy  still  serenely  spoke  of  it  as  a 
"  simple  affair,"  but  Marie  was  beginning  to  be 
fearful.  As  the  days  passed,  bringing  with  them 
more  and  more  frequent  evidences  either  tangible 
or  intangible  of  orders  to  stationers,  caterers, 
and  florists,  her  fears  found  voice  in  a  protest. 

"  But  Billy,  it  was  to  be  a  simple  wedding," 
she  cried. 

"  And  so  it  is." 

"  But  what  is  this  I  hear  about  a  breakfast?  " 

Billy's  chin  assumed  its  most  stubborn  square- 
ness. 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,  what  you  did  hear," 
she  retorted  calmly. 

"  Billy!  " 

106 


A  Job  for  Pete  —  and  for  Bertram  107 

Billy  laughed.  The  chin  was  just  as  stubborn, 
but  the  smiling  lips  above  it  graced  it  with  an 
air  of  charming  concession. 

"  There,  there,  dear,"  coaxed  the  mistress  of 
Hillside,  "  don't  fret.  Besides,  I'm  sure  I  should 
think  you,  of  all  people,  would  want  your  guests 
fed!  " 

"  But  this  is  so  elaborate,  from  what  I  hear." 

"  Nonsense!    Not  a  bit  of  it." 

"  Rosa  says  there'll  be  salads  and  cakes  and 
ices  —  and  I  don't  know  what  all." 

Billy  looked  concerned. 

"  Well,  of  course,  Marie,  if  you'd  rather  have 
oatmeal  and  doughnuts,"  she  began  with  kind 
solicitude ;  but  she  got  no  farther. 

"Billy!"  besought  the  bride  elect.  "Won't 
you  be  serious?  And  there's  the  cake  in  wedding 
boxes,  too." 

"  I  know,  but  boxes  are  so  much  easier  and 
cleaner  than  —  just  fingers,"  apologized  an  anx- 
iously serious  voice. 

Marie  answered  with  an  indignant,  grieved 
glance  and  hurried  on. 

"  And  the  flowers  —  roses,  dozens  of  them, 
in  December!  Billy,  I  can't  let  you  do  all  this 
for  me." 

"Nonsense,  dear!"  laughed  Billy.  "Why,  I 
love  to  do  it.  Besides,  when  you're  gone,  just 


108  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

think  how  lonesome  I'll  be!  I  shall  have  to  adopt 
somebody  else  then  —  now  that  Mary  Jane  has 
proved  to  be  nothing  but  a  disappointing  man 
instead  of  a  nice  little  girl  like  you,"  she  finished 
whimsically. 

Marie  did  not  smile.  The  frown  still  lay  be- 
tween her  delicate  brows. 

"  And  for  my  trousseau  —  there  were  so  many 
things  that  you  simply  would  buy!  " 

"  I  didn't  get  one  of  the  egg-beaters,"  Billy 
reminded  her  anxiously. 

Marie  smiled  now,  but  she  shook  her  head,  too. 

"  Billy,  I  cannot  have  you  do  all  this  for  me." 

"  Why  not?  " 

At  the  unexpectedly  direct  question,  Marie 
fell  back  a  little. 

"  Why,  because  I  —  I  can't,"  she  stammered. 
"  I  can't  get  them  for  myself,  and  —  and  —  " 

"  Don't  you  love  me?  " 

A  pink  flush  stole  to  Marie's  face. 

"  Indeed  I  do,  dearly." 

"  Don't  I  love  you?  " 

The  flush  deepened. 

"I  — I  hope  so." 

"  Then  why  won't  you  let  me  do  what  I  want 
to,  and  be  happy  in  it?  Money,  just  money, 
isn't  any  good  unless  you  can  exchange  it  for  some- 
thing you  want.  And  just  now  I  want  pink  roses 


A  Job  for  Pete  —  and  for  Bertram   109 

and  ice  cream  and  lace  flounces  for  you.    Marie," 

—  Billy's  voice  trembled  a  little  —  "I  never  had  a 
sister  till  I  had  you,  and  I  have  had  such  a  good 
time  buying  things  that  I  thought  you  wanted! 
But,  of  course,  if  you  don't  want  them  —  "    The 
words  ended  in  a  choking  sob,  and  down  went 
Billy's  head  into  her  folded  arms  on  the  desk  be- 
fore her. 

Marie  sprang  to  her  feet  and  cuddled  the  bowed 
head  in  a  loving  embrace. 

"  But  I  do  want  them,  dear;  I  want  them  all  — 
every  single  one,"  she  urged.  "  Now  promise  me 

—  promise  me  that  you'll  do  them  all,  just  as 
you'd  planned!    You  will,  won't  you?  " 

There  was  the  briefest  of  hesitations,  then  came 
the  muffled  reply : 

"  Yes  —  if  you  really  want  them." 

"I  do,  dear  —  indeed  I  do.  I  love  pretty 
weddings,  and  I  —  I  always  hoped  that  I  could 
have  one  —  if  I  ever  married.  So  you  must 
know,  dear,  how  I  really  do  want  all  those  things," 
declared  Marie,  fervently.  "  And  now  I  must  go. 
I  promised  to  meet  Cyril  at  Park  Street  at  three 
o'clock."  And  she  hurried  from  the  room  —  and 
not  until  she  was  half-way  to  her  destination  did 
it  suddenly  occur  to  her  that  she  had  been  urging, 
actually  urging  Miss  Billy  Neilson  to  buy  for 
her  pink  roses,  ice  cream,  and  lace  flounces. 


no  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

Her  cheeks  burned  with  shame  then.  But  al- 
most at  once  she  smiled. 

"  Now  wasn't  that  just  like  Billy?  "  she  was 
saying  to  herself,  with  a  tender  glow  in  her  eyes. 

It  was  early  in  December  that  Pete  came  one 
day  with  a  package  for  Marie  from  Cyril.  Marie 
was  not  at  home,  and  Billy  herself  went  down- 
stairs to  take  the  package  from  the  old  man's 
hands. 

"  Mr.  Cyril  said  to  give  it  to  Miss  Hawthorn," 
stammered  the  old  servant,  his  face  lighting  up 
as  Billy  entered  the  room;  "but  I'm  sure  he 
wouldn't  mind  your  taking  it." 

"  I'm  afraid  I'll  have  to  take  it,  Pete,  unless 
you  want  to  carry  it  back  with  you,"  she  smiled. 
"I'll  see  that  Miss  Hawthorn  has  it  the  very  first 
moment  she  comes  in." 

:<  Thank  you,  Miss.  It  does  my  old  eyes  good 
to  see  your  bright  face."  He  hesitated,  then 
turned  slowly.  "  Good  day,  Miss  Billy." 

Billy  laid  the  package  on  the  table.  Her  eyes 
were  thoughtful  as  she  looked  after  the  old  man, 
who  was  now  almost  to  the  door.  Something 
in  his  bowed  form  appealed  to  her  strangely.  She 
took  a  quick  step  toward  him. 

'  You'll  miss  Mr.  Cyril,  Pete,"  she  said  pleas- 
antly. 


A  Job  for  Pete  —  and  for  Bertram  ill 

The  old  man  stopped  at  once  and  turned.  He 
lifted  his  head  a  little  proudly. 

"  Yes,  Miss.  I  —  I  was  there  when  he  was 
born.  Mr.  Cyril's  a  fine  man." 

"  Indeed  he  is.  Perhaps  it's  your  good  care 
that's  helped,  some  —  to  make  him  so,"  smiled 
the  girl,  vaguely  wishing  that  she  could  say  some- 
thing that  would  drive  the  wistful  look  from  the 
dim  old  eyes  before  her. 

For  a  moment  Billy  thought  she  had  succeeded. 
The  old  servant  drew  himself  stiffly  erect.  In 
his  eyes  shone  the  loyal  pride  of  more  than  fifty 
years'  honest  service.  Almost  at  once,  however, 
the  pride  died  away,  and  the  wistfulness  returned. 

"  Thank  ye,  Miss;  but  I  don't  lay  no  claim  to 
that,  of  course,"  he  said.  "  Mr.  Cyril's  a  fine 
man,  and  we  shall  miss  him ;  but  —  I  cal'late 
changes  must  come  —  to  all  of  us." 

Billy's  brown  eyes  grew  a  little  misty. 

"  I  suppose  they  must,"  she  admitted. 

The  old  man  hesitated;  then,  as  if  impelled 
by  some  hidden  force,  he  plunged  on : 

"Yes;  and  they'll  be  comin'  to  you  one  of 
these  days,  Miss,  and  that's  what  I  was  wantin' 
to  speak  to  ye  about.  I  understand,  of  couii^, 
that  when  you  get  there  you'll  be  wantin'  younger 
blood  to  serve  ye.  My  feet  ain't  so  spry  as  they 
once  was,  and  my  old  hands  blunder  sometimes, 


Miss  Billy's  Decision 


in  spite  of  what  my  head  bids  'em  do.  So  I  wanted 
to  tell  ye  —  that  of  course  I  shouldn't  expect  to 
stay.  I'd  go." 

As  he  said  the  words,  Pete  stood  with  head  and 
'  shoulders  erect,  his  eyes  looking  straight  forward 
but  not  at  Billy. 

"  Don't  you  want  to  stay?  "  The  girlish  voice 
was  a  little  reproachful. 

Pete's  head  drooped. 

"  Not  if  —  I'm  not  wanted,"  came  the  husky 
reply. 

With  an  impulsive  movement  Billy  came 
straight  to  the  old  man's  side  and  held  out  her 
hand. 

"  Pete!  " 

Amazement,  incredulity,  and  a  look  that  was 
almost  terror  crossed  the  old  man's  face;  then  a 
flood  of  dull  red  blotted  them  all  out  and  left  only 
worshipful  rapture.  With  a  choking  cry  he  took 
the  slim  little  hand  in  both  his  rough  and  twisted 
ones  much  as  if  he  were  possessing  himself  of 
a  treasured  bit  of  eggshell  china. 

"Miss  Billy!" 

"  Pete,  there  aren't  a  pair  of  feet  in  Boston,  ' 
nor  a  pair  of  hands,  either,  that  I'd  rather  have 
serve  me  than  yours,  no  matter  if  they  stumble 
and  blunder  all  day!  I  shall  love  stumbles  and 
blunders  —  if  you  make  them.  Now  run  home, 


A  Job  for  Pete  —  and  for  Bertram  113 

and  don't  ever  let  me  hear  another  syllable  about 
your  leaving!  " 

They  were  not  the  words  Billy  had  intended 
to  say.  She  had  meant  to  speak  of  his  long, 
faithful  service,  and  of  how  much  they  appre- 
ciated it;  but,  to  her  surprise,  Billy  found  her 
own  eyes  wet  and  her  own  voice  trembling,  and 
the  words  that  she  would  have  said  she  found 
fast  shut  in  her  throat.  So  there  was  nothing 
to  do  but  to  stammer  out  something  —  anything, 
that  would  help  to  keep  her  from  yielding  to 
that  absurd  and  awful  desire  to  fall  on  the  old 
servant's  neck  and  cry. 

"  Not  another  syllable!  "  she  repeated  sternly. 

"  Miss  Billy!  "  choked  Pete  again.  Then  he 
turned  and  fled  with  anything  but  his  usual 
dignity. 

Bertram  called  that  evening.  When  Billy 
came  to  him  in  the  living-room,  her  slender  self 
was  almost  hidden  behind  the  swirls  of  damask 
linen  in  her  arms. 

Bertram's  eyes  grew  mutinous. 

"  Do  you  expect  me  to  hug  all  that?  "  he  de- 
manded. 

Billy  flashed  him  a  mischievous  glance. 

"  Of  course  not!  You  don't  have  to  hug  any- 
thing, you  know." 

For  answer  he  impetuously  swept  the  offend- 


114  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

ing  linen  into  the  nearest  chair  and  drew  the  girl 
into  his  arms. 

' '  Oh !  And  see  how  you've  crushed  poor  Marie's 
table-cloth!  "  she  cried,  with  reproachful  eyes. 

Bertram  sniffed  imperturbably. 

"  I'm  not  sure  but  I'd  like  to  crush  Marie," 
he  alleged. 

"Bertram!" 

"  I  can't  help  it.  See  here,  Billy."  He  loosened 
his  clasp  and  held  the  girl  off  at  arm's  length, 
regarding  her  with  stormy  eyes.  "  It's  Marie, 
Marie,  Marie  —  always.  If  I  telephone  in  the 
morning,  you've  gone  shopping  with  Marie. 
If  I  want  you  in  the  afternoon  for  something, 
you're  at  the  dressmaker's  with  Marie.  If  I  call 
in  the  evening  —  " 

"  I'm  here,"  interrupted  Billy,  with  decision. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you're  here,"  admitted  Bertram, 
aggrievedly,  "  and  so  are  dozens  of  napkins, 
miles  of  table-cloths,  and  yards  upon  yards  of 
lace  and  flummy diddles  you  call  *  doilies.'  They 
all  belong  to  Marie,  and  they  fill  your  arms  and 
your  thoughts  full,  until  there  isn't  an  inch  of 
room  for  me.  Billy,  when  is  this  thing  going  to 
end?  " 

Billy  laughed  softly.    Her  eyes  danced. 

"  The  twelfth ;  —  that  is,  there'll  be  a  —  pause, 
then." 


A  Job  for  Pete  —  and  for  Bertram  115 

"Well,  I'm  thankful  if  — eh?"  broke  off  the 
man,  with  a  sudden  change  of  manner.  "  What 
do  you  mean  by  '  a  pause  '  ?J* 

Billy  cast  down  her  eyes  demurely. 

"  Well,  of  course  this  ends  the  twelfth  with 
Marie's  wedding;  but  I've  sort  of  regarded  it  as 
an  —  understudy  for  one  that's  coming  next 
October,  you  see." 

"  Billy,  you  darling!  "  breathed  a  supremely 
happy  voice  in  a  shell-like  ear  —  Billy  was  not 
at  arm's  length  now. 

Billy  smiled,  but  she  drew  away  with  gentle 
firmness. 

"  And  now  I  must  go  back  to  my  sewing," 
she  said. 

Bertram's  arms  did  not  loosen.  His  eyes  had 
grown  mutinous  again. 

"  That  is,"  she  amended,  "  I  must  be  practising 
my  part  of  —  the  understudy,  you  know." 

"  You  darling!  "  breathed  Bertram  again;  this 
time,  however,  he  let  her  go. 

"  But,  honestly,  is  it  all  necessary?  "  he  sighed 
despairingly,  as  she  seated  herself  and  gathered 
the  table-cloth  into  her  lap.  "  Do  you  have  to  do 
so  much  of  it  all?  " 

"  I  do,"  smiled  Billy,  "  unless  you  want  your 
brother  to  run  the  risk  of  leading  his  bride  to 
the  altar  and  finding  her  robed  in  a  kitchen 


116  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

apron  with  an  egg-beater  in  her  hand  for  a  bou- 
quet." 

Bertram  laughed. 

"  Is  it  so  bad  as  that?  " 

"  No,  of  course  not  —  quite.  But  never  have 
I  seen  a  bride  so  utterly  oblivious  to  clothes  as 
Marie  was  till  one  day  in  despair  I  told  her  that 
Cyril  never  could  bear  a  dowdy  woman." 

"As  if  Cyril,  in  the  old  days,  ever  could  bear 
any  sort  of  woman!  "  scoffed  Bertram,  merrily. 

"  I  know;  but  I  didn't  mention  that  part," 
smiled  Billy.  "  I  just  singled  out  the  dowdy 
one." 

"  Did  it  work?  " 

Billy  made  a  gesture  of  despair. 

"  Did  it  work !  It  worked  too  well.  Marie  gave 
me  one  horrified  look,  then  at  once  and  imme- 
diately she  became  possessed  with  the  idea  that  she 
was  a  dowdy  woman.  And  from  that  day  to 
this  she  has  pursued  every  lurking  wrinkle  and 
every  fold  awry,  until  her  dressmaker's  life  isn't 
worth  the  living;  and  I'm  beginning  to  think 
mine  isn't,  either^  for  I  have  to  assure  her  at 
least  four  times  every  day  now  that  she  is  not 
a  dowdy  woman." 

'  You  poor  dear,"  laughed  Bertram.  "  No 
wonder  you  don't  have  time  to  give  to  me!  " 

A  peculiar  expression  crossed  Billy's  face. 


A  Job  for  Pete  —  and  for  Bertram  117 

"  Oh,  but  I'm  not  the  only  one  who,  at  times, 
is  otherwise  engaged,  sir,"  she  reminded  him. 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

11  There  was  yesterday,  and  last  Monday,  and 
last  week  Wednesday,  and- 

"  Oh,  but  you  let  me  off,  then,"  argued  Ber- 
tram, anxiously.  "  And  you  said  —  " 

"  That  I  didn't  wish  to  interfere  with  your 
work  —  which  was  quite  true,"  interrupted  Billy 
in  her  turn,  smoothly.  "  By  the  way,"  —  Billy 
was  examining  her  stitches  very  closely  now 
— "  how  is  Miss  Winthrop's  portrait  coming 
on?" 

"  Splendidly!  —  that  is,  it  was,  until  she  began 
to  put  off  the  sittings  for  her  pink  teas  and  folde- 
rols.  She's  going  to  Washington  next  week,  too, 
to  be  gone  nearly  a  fortnight,"  finished  Ber- 
tram, gloomily. 

"  Aren't  you  putting  more  work  than  usual 
into  this  one  —  and  more  sittings?  " 

"  Well,  yes,"  laughed  Bertram,  a  little  shortly. 
"  You  see,  she's  changed  the  pose  twice  already." 

"  Changed  it!" 

'  Yes.  Wasn't  satisfied.  Fancied  she  wanted 
it  different." 

"  But  can't  you  —  don't  you  have  something  to 
say  about  it?  " 

"  Oh,   yes,   of  course;    and  she  claims   she'll 


118  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

yield  to  my  judgment,  anyhow.  But  what's  the 
use?  She's  been  a  spoiled  darling  all  her  life,  and 
in  the  habit  of  having  her  own  way  about  every- 
thing. Naturally,  under  those  circumstances, 
I  can't  expect  to  get  a  satisfactory  portrait, 
if  she's  out  of  tune  with  the  pose.  Besides,  I  will 
own,  so  far  her  suggestions  have  made  for  im- 
provement—  probably  because  she's  been  happy 
in  making  them,  so  her  expression  has  been  good." 

Billy  wet  her  lips. 

"  I  saw  her  the  other  night,"  she  said  lightly. 
(If  the  lightness  was  a  little  artificial  Bertram  did 
not  seem  to  notice  it.)  "  She  is  certainly  —  very 
beautiful." 

"  Yes."  Bertram  got  to  his  feet  and  began  to 
walk  up  and  down  the  little  room.  His  eyes  were 
alight.  On  his  face  the  "  painting  look  "  was  king. 
"  It's  going  to  mean  a  lot  to  me  —  this  picture, 
Billy.  In  the  first  place  I'm  just  at  the  point  in 
my  career  where  a  big  success  would  mean  a  lot  f 
• —  and  where  a  big  failure  would  mean  more. 
And  this  portrait  is  bound  to  be  one  or  the  other 
from  the  very  nature  of  the  thing." 

"  I-is  it?  "     Billy's  voice  was  a  little  faint. 

'  Yes.  First,  because  of  who  the  sitter  is,  and 
secondly  because  of  what  she  is.  She  is,  of  course, 
the  most  famous  subject  I've  had,  and  half  the 
artistic  world  knows  by  this  time  that  Marguerite 


A  Job  for  Pete  —  and  for  Bertram  119 

Winthrop  is  being  done  by  Henshaw.  You  can 
see  what  it'll  be  —  if  I  fail." 

"  But  you  won't  fail,  Bertram!  " 

The  artist  lifted  his  chin  and  threw  back  his 
shoulders. 

"No,  of  course  not;  but  —  "  He  hesitated, 
frowned,  and  dropped  himself  into  a  chair.  His 
eyes  studied  the  fire  moodily.  "  You  see,"  he 
resumed,  after  a  moment,  "  there's  a  peculiar, 
elusive  something  about  her  expression  — " 
(Billy  stirred  restlessly  and  gave  her  thread  so 
savage  a  jerk  that  it  broke)  "  —  a  something 
that  isn't  easily  caught  by  the  brush.  Anderson 
and  Fullam  —  big  fellows,  both  of  them  —  didn't 
catch  it.  At  least,  I've  understood  that  neither 
her  family  nor  her  friends  are  satisfied  with  their 
portraits.  And  to  succeed  where  Anderson  and 
Fullam  failed  —  Jove !  Billy,  a  chance  like  that 
doesn't  come  to  a  fellow  twice  in  a  lifetime!  " 
Bertram  was  out  of  his  chair,  again,  tramping 
up  and  down  the  little  room. 

Billy  tossed  her  work  aside  and  sprang  to  her 
feet.  Her  eyes,  too,  were  alight,  now. 

"  But  you  aren't  going  to  fail,  dear,"  she  cried, 
holding  out  both  her  hands.  "  You're  going  to 
succeed!  " 

Bertram  caught  the  hands  and  kissed  first  one 
then  the  other  of  their  soft  little  palms. 


120  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

"  Of  course  I  am,"  he  agreed  passionately, 
leading  her  to  the  sofa,  and  seating  himself  at  her 
side. 

"  Yes,  but  you  must  really  feel  it,"  she  urged; 
"  feel  the  '  sure  '  in  yourself.  You  have  to!  —  to 
do  big  things.  That's  what  I  told  Mary  Jane  yes- 
terday, when  he  was  running  on  about  what  he 
wanted  to  do  —  in  his  singing,  you  know." 

Bertram  stiffened  a  little.  A  quick  frown  came 
to  his  face. 

"  Mary  Jane,  indeed!  Of  all  the  absurd  names 
to  give  a  full-grown,  six-foot  man!  Billy,  do,  for 
pity's  sake,  call  him  by  his  name  — if  he's  got 
one." 

Billy  broke  into  a  rippling  laugh. 

"  I  wish  I  could,  dear,"  she  sighed  ingenuously. 
"  Honestly,  it  bothers  me  because  I  can't  think 
of  him  as  anything  but  '  Mary  Jane.'  It  seems 
so  silly!" 

"It  certainly  does  —  when  one  remembers 
his  beard." 

"  Oh,  he's  shaved  that  off  now.  He  looks 
rather  better,  too." 

Bertram  turned  a  little  sharply. 

"  Do  you  see  the  fellow  —  often?  " 

Billy  laughed  merrily. 

"  No.  He's  about  as  disgruntled  as  you  are 
over  the  way  the  wedding  monopolizes  everything. 


A  Job  for  Pete  —  and  for  Bertram  121 

He's  been  up  once  or  twice  to  see  Aunt  Hannah 
and  to  get  acquainted,  as  he  expresses  it,  and  once 
he  brought  up  some  music  and  we  sang ;  but  he  de- 
clares the  wedding  hasn't  given  him  half  a  show." 

"Indeed!      Well,    that's    a    pity,    I'm    sure,"/ 
rejoined  Bertram,  icily. 

Billy  turned  in  slight  surprise. 

"  Why,  Bertram,  don't  you  like  Mary  Jane?  " 

"  Billy,  for  heaven's  sake!  Hasn't  he  got  any 
name  but  that?  " 

Billy  clapped  her  hands  together  suddenly. 

"  There,  that  makes  me  think.  He  told  Aunt 
Hannah  and  me  to  guess  what  his  name  was,  and 
we  never  hit  it  once.  What  do  you  think  it  is? 
The  initials  are  M.  J." 

"  I  couldn't  say,  I'm  sure.    What  is  it?  " 

"  Oh,  he  didn't  tell  us.  You  see  he  left  us  to 
guess  it." 

"  Did  he?  " 

'  Yes,"  mused  Billy,  abstractedly,  her  eyes  on 
the  dancing  fire.  The  next  minute  she  stirred  and 
settled  herself  more  comfortably  in  the  curve 
of  her  lover's  arm.  "  But  there!  who  cares 
what  his  name  is?  I'm  sure  I  don't." 

"  Nor  I,"  echoed  Bertram  in  a  voice  that  he 
tried  to  make  not  too  fervent.  He  had  not  for- 
gotten Billy's  surprised:  "Why,  Bertram,  don't 
you  like  Mary  Jane?  "  and  he  did  not  like  to  call 


122  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

forth  a  repetition  of  it.  Abruptly,  therefore,  he 
changed  the  subject.  "  By  the  way,  what  did 
you  do  to  Pete  to-day?  "  he  asked  laughingly. 
"  He  came  home  in  a  seventh  heaven  of  happiness 
babbling  of  what  an  angel  straight  from  the  sky 
Miss  Billy  was.  Naturally  I  agreed  with  him 
on  that  point.  But  what  did  you  do  to  him?  " 

Billy  smiled. 

"  Nothing  —  only  engaged  him  for  our  butler 
—  for  life." 

"  Oh,  I  see.    That  was  dear  of  you,  Billy." 

""As  if  I'd  do  anything  else!  And  now  for 
Dong  Ling,  I  suppose,  some  day." 

Bertram  chuckled. 

"  Well,  maybe  I  can  help  you  there,"  he  hinted. 
"  You  see,  his  Celestial  Majesty  came  to  me  him- 
self the  other  day,  and  said,  after  sundry  and 
various  preliminaries,  that  he  should  be  '  velly 
much  glad  '  when  the  '  Little  Missee '  came  to 
live  with  me,  for  then  he  could  go  back  to  China 
with  a  heart  at  rest,  as  he  had  money  '  velly 
much  plenty '  and  didn't  wish  to  be  '  Melican 
man  '  any  longer." 

"  Dear  me,"  smiled  Billy,  "  what  a  happy 
•state  of  affairs  —  for  him.  But  for  you  —  do  you 
realize,  young  man,  what  that  means  for  you? 
A  new  wife  and  a  new  cook  all  at  once?  And  you 
know  I'm  not  Marie!  " 


A  Job  for  Pete  —  and  for  Bertram  123 

"  Ho!  I'm  not  worrying,"  retorted  Bertram 
with  a  contented  smile;  "besides,  as  perhaps 
you  noticed,  it  wasn't  Marie  that  I  asked  —  to 
marry  me! " 


CHAPTER  XI 

A  CLOCK  AND  AUNT  HANNAH 

MRS.  KATE  HARTWELL,  the  Henshaw  brothers' 
sister  from  the  West,  was  expected  on  the  tenth. 
Her  husband  could  not  come,  she  had  written, 
but  she  would  bring  with  her,  little  Kate,  the 
youngest  child.  The  boys,  Paul  and  Egbert, 
would  stay  with  their  father. 

Billy  received  the  news  of  little  Kate's  coming 
with  outspoken  delight. 

"The  very  thing!"  she  cried.  "We'll  have 
her  for  a  flower  girl.  She  was  a  dear  little  creature, 
as  I  remember  her." 

Aunt  Hannah  gave  a  sudden  low  laugh. 

"  Yes,  I  remember,"  she  observed.  "  Kate 
told  me,  after  you  spent  the  first  day  with  her, 
that  you  graciously  informed  her  that  little  Kate 
was  almost  as  nice  as  Spunk.  Kate  did  not  fully 
appreciate  the  compliment,  I  fear." 

Billy  made  a  wry  face. 

"  Did  I  say  that?  Dear  me!  I  was  a  terror 
in  those  days,  wasn't  I?  But  then,"  and  she 
laughed  softly,  "  really,  Aunt  Hannah,  that  was 

124 


A  Clock  and  Aunt  Hannah        125 

the  prettiest  thing  I  knew  how  to  say,  for  I  con- 
sidered Spunk  the  top-notch  of  desirability." 

"  I  think  I  should  have  liked  to  know  Spunk," 
smiled  Marie  from  the  other  side  of  the  sewing 
table. 

"He  was  a  dear,"  declared  Billy.  "I  had 
another  'most  as  good  when  I  first  came  to  Hillside, 
but  he  got  lost.  For  a  time  it  seemed  as  if  I  never 
wanted  another,  but  I've  about  come  to  the  conclu- 
sion now  that  I  do,  and  I've  told  Bertram  to  find 
one  for  me  if  he  can.  You  see  I  shall  be  lonesome 
after  you're  gone,  Marie,  and  I'll  have  to  have 
something"  she  finished  mischievously.  '„ 

11  Oh,  I  don't  mind  the  inference  —  as  long  as 
I  know  your  admiration  of  cats,"  laughed  Marie. 

"  Let  me  see;  Kate  writes  she  is  coming  the 
tenth,"  murmured  Aunt  Hannah,  going  back 
to  the  letter  in  her  hand. 

"  Good!  "  nodded  Billy.  "  That  will  give  time 
to  put  little  Kate  through  her  paces  as  flower 
girl." 

"  Yes,  and  it  will  give  Big  Kate  time  to  try  to 
make  your  breakfast  a  supper,  and  your  roses 
pinks  —  or  sunflowers,"  cut  in  a  new  voice,  dryly. 

"  Cyril!  "  chorussed  the  three  ladies  in  horror, 
adoration,  and  amusement  —  according  to  whether 
the  voice  belonged  to  Aunt  Hannah,  Marie,  or 
Billy. 


126  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

Cyril  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  smiled. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  apologized;  "but 
Rosa  said  you  were  in  here  sewing,  and  I  told 
her  not  to  bother.  I'd  announce  myself.  Just 
as  I  got  to  the  door  I  chanced  to  hear  Billy's 
speech,  and  I  couldn't  resist  making  the  amend- 
ment. Maybe  you've  forgotten  Kate's  love  of 
managing  —  but  I  haven't,"  he  finished,  as  he 
sauntered  over  to  the  chair  nearest  Marie. 

"  No,  I  haven't  —  forgotten,"  observed  Billy, 
meaningly. 

"  Nor  I  —  nor  anybody  else,"  declared  a 
severe  voice  —  both  the  words  and  the  severity 
being  most  extraordinary  as  coming  from  the 
usually  gentle  Aunt  Hannah. 

"  Oh,  well,  never  mind,"  spoke  up  Billy,  quickly. 
"  Everything's  all  right  now,  so  let's  forget  it. 
She  always  meant  it  for  kindness,  I'm  sure." 

"  Even  when  she  told  you  in  the  first  place 
what  a  —  er  —  torment  you  were  to  us?  "  quizzed 
Cyril. 

"  Yes,"  flashed  Billy."  "  She  was  being  kind  to 
you,  then." 

"  Humph!  "  vouchsafed  Cyril. 

For  a  moment  no  one  spoke.  Cyril's  eyes  were 
on  Marie,  who  was  nervously  trying  to  smooth 
back  a  few  fluffy  wisps  of  hair  that  had  escaped 
from  restraining  combs  and  pins. 


A  Clock  and  Aunt  Hannah        127 

"  What's  the  matter  with  the  hair,  little  girl?  " 
asked  Cyril  in  a  voice  that  was  caressingly  irri- 
table. "  You've  been  fussing  with  that  long- 
suffering  curl  for  the  last  five  minutes!  " 

Marie's  delicate  face  flushed  painfully. 

"It's  got  loose  —  my  hair,"  she  stammered, 
"  and  it  looks  so  dowdy  that  way!  " 

Billy  dropped  her  thread  suddenly.  She  sprang 
for  it  at  once,  before  Cyril  could  make  a  move  to 
get  it.  She  had  to  dive  far  under  a  chair  to  cap- 
ture it  —  which  may  explain  why  her  face  was  so 
very  red  when  she  finally  reached  her  seat  again. 

On  the  morning  of  the  tenth,  Billy,  Marie,  and 
Aunt  Hannah  were  once  more  sewing  together, 
this  time  in  the  little  sitting-room  at  the  end  of 
the  hall  up-stairs. 

Billy's  fingers,  in  particular,  were  flying  very 
fast. 

"  I  told  John  to  have  Peggy  at  the  door  at 
eleven,"  she  said,  after  a  time;  "but  I  think  I 
can  finish  running  in  this  ribbon  before  then.  I 
haven't  much  to  do  to  get  ready  to  go." 

"  I  hope  Kate's  train  won't  be  late,"  worried 
Aunt  Hannah. 

"  I  hope  not,"  replied  Billy;  "  but  I  told  Rosa 
to  delay  luncheon,  anyway,  till  we  get  here.  I  —  '* 
She  stopped  abruptly  and  turned  a  listening  ear 


128  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

toward  the  door  of  Aunt  Hannah's  room,  which 
was  open.  A  clock  was  striking.  "  Mercy! 
that  can't  be  eleven  now,"  she  cried.  "  But  it 
must  be  —  it  was  ten  before  I  came  up-stairs." 
She  got  to  her  feet  hurriedly. 

Aunt  Hannah  put  out  a  restraining  hand. 

"  No,  no,  dear,  that's  half-past  ten." 

"  But  it  struck  eleven." 

"  Yes,  I  know.    It  does  —  at  half -past  ten." 

"  Why,  the  little  wretch,"  laughed  Billy,  drop- 
ping back  into  her  chair  and  picking  up  her  work 
again.  "  The  idea  of  its  telling  fibs  like  that  and 
frightening  people  half  out  of  their  lives!  I'll 
have  it  fixed  right  away.  Maybe  John  can  do  it 
—  he's  always  so  handy  about  such  things." 

"  But  I  don't  want  it  fixed,"  demurred  Aunt 
Hannah. 

Billy  stared  a  little. 

"You  don't  want  it  fixed!  Maybe  you  like 
to  have  it  strike  eleven  when  it's  half -past  ten!  " 
Billy's  voice  was  merrily  sarcastic. 

"  Y-yes,  I  do,"  stammered  the  lady,  apolo- 
getically. "  You  see,  I  —  I  worked  very  hard  to 
fix  it  so  it  would  strike  that  way." 

"Aunt  Hannah!  " 

"  Well,  I  did,"  retorted  the  lady,  with  unex- 
pected spirit.  "  I  wanted  to  know  what  time  it 
was  in  the  night  —  I'm  awake  such  a  lot." 


A  Clock  and  Aunt  Hannah        129 

"  But  I  don't  see."  Billy's  eyes  were  perplexed. 
"  Why  must  you  make  it  tell  fibs  in  order  to  —  to 
find  out  the  truth?  "  she  laughed. 

Aunt  Hannah  elevated  her  chin  a  little. 

"  Because  that  clock  was  always  striking  one." 

"One!" 

'Yes  —  half -past,  you  know;  and  I  never 
knew  which  half -past  it  was." 

"But  it  must  strike  half-past  now,  just  the 
same! " 

11  It  does."  There  was  the  triumphant  ring  of 
the  conqueror  in  Aunt  Hannah's  voice.  "  But 
now  it  strikes  half -past  on  the  hour,  and  the  clock 
in  the  hall  tells  me  then  what  time  it  is,  so  I  don't 
care." 

For  one  more  brief  minute  Billy  stared,  before 
a  sudden  light  of  understanding  illumined  her 
face.  Then  her  laugh  rang  out  gleefully. 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Hannah,  Aunt  Hannah,"  she 
gurgled.  "  If  Bertram  wouldn't  call  you  the  limit 
—  making  a  clock  strike  eleven  so  you'll  know  it's 
half -past  ten!  " 

Aunt  Hannah  colored  a  little,  but  she  stood 
her  ground. 

"  Well,  there's  only  half  an  hour,  anyway,  now, 
that  I  don't  know  what  time  it  is,"  she  maintained, 
"  for  one  or  the  other  of  those  clocks  strikes  the 
hour  every  thirty  minutes.  Even  during  those 


130  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

never-ending  three  ones  that  strike  one  after 
the  other  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  I  can  tell 
now,  for  the  hall  clock  has  a  different  sound  for 
the  half-hours,  you  know,  so  I  can  tell  whether 
it's  one  or  a  half-past." 

"  Of  course,"  chuckled  Billy. 

"I'm  sure  I  think  it's  a  splendid  idea,"  chimed 
in  Marie,  valiantly;  "  and  I'm  going  to  write  it 
to  mother's  Cousin  Jane  right  away.  She's  an 
invalid,  and  she's  always  lying  awake  nights 
wondering  what  time  it  is.  The  doctor  says 
actually  he  believes  she'd  get  well  if  he  could  find 
some  way  of  letting  her  know  the  time  at  night, 
so  she'd  get  some  sleep;  for  she  simply  can't 
go  to  sleep  till  she  knows.  She  can't  bear  a  light 
in  the  room,  and  it  wakes  her  all  up  to  turn  an 
electric  switch,  or  anything  of  that  kind." 

''  Why  doesn't  she  have  one  of  those  phosphor- 
ous things?  "  questioned  Billy. 

Marie  laughed  quietly. 

"  She  did.  I  sent  her  one,  —  and  she  stood  it 
just  one  night." 

"  Stood  it!  " 

'  Yes.  She  declared  it  gave  her  the  creeps, 
and  that  she  wouldn't  have  the  spooky  thing 
staring  at  her  all  night  like  that.  So  it's  got  to 
be  something  she  can  hear,  and  I'm  going  to 
tell  her  Mrs.  Stetson's  plan  right  away." 


A  Clock  and  Aunt  Hannah         131 

"  Well,  I'm  sure  I  wish  you  would,"  cried  that 
lady,  with  prompt  interest;  "and  she'll  like  it, 
I'm  sure.  And  tell  her  if  she  can  hear  a  town 
clock  strike,  it's  just  the  same,  and  even  better; 
,  for  there  aren't  any  half-hours  at  all  to  think  of 
there." 

"I  will  —  and  I  think  it's  lovely,"  declared 
Marie. 

"  Of  course  it's  lovely,"  smiled  Billy,  rising; 
"  but  I  fancy  I'd  better  go  and  get  ready  to  meet 
Mrs.  Hart  well,  or  the  '  lovely  '  thing  will  be  tell- 
ing me  that  it's  half -past  eleven!  "  And  she 
tripped  laughingly  from  the  room. 

Promptly  at  the  appointed  time  John  with 
Peggy  drew  up  before  the  door,  and  Billy,  muffled 
in  furs,  stepped  into  the  car,  which,  with  its  pro- 
tecting top  and  sides  and  glass  wind-shield,  was 
in  its  winter  dress. 

"  Yes'm,  'tis  a  little  chilly,  Miss,"  said  John, 
in  answer  to  her  greeting,  as  he  tucked  the  heavy 
robes  about  her. 

"  Oh,  well,  I  shall  be  very  comfortable,  I'm 
sure,"  smiled  Billy.  "  Just  don't  drive  too  rapidly, 
specially  coming  home.  I  shall  have  to  get  a 
limousine,  I  think,  when  my  ship  comes  in,  John." 

John's  grizzled  old  face  twitched.  So  evident 
were  the  words  that  were  not  spoken  that  Billy 
asked  laughingly : 


132  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

"  Well,  John,  what  is  it?  " 

John  reddened  furiously. 

"  Nothing,  Miss.  I  was  only  thinkin'  that  if 
you  didn't  'tend  ter  haulin'  in  so  many  other 
folks's  ships,  yours  might  get  in  sooner." 

"Why,  John!  Nonsense!  I  —  I  love  to  haul 
in  other  folks's  ships,"  laughed  the  girl,  embar- 
rassedly. 

'  Yes,  Miss;    I  know  you  do,"  grunted  John. 

Billy  colored. 

11  No,  no  —  that  is,  I  mean  —  I  don't  do  it  — 
very  much,"  she  stammered. 

John  did  not  answer  apparently;  but  Billy 
was  sure  she  caught  a  low-muttered,  indignant 
"  much!  "  as  he  snapped  the  door  shut  and  took 
his  place  at  the  wheel. 

To  herself  she  laughed  softly.  She  thought  she 
possessed  the  secret  now  of  some  of  John's  dis- 
approving glances  toward  her  humble  guests  of 
the  summer  before. 


CHAPTER    XII 

SISTER    KATE 

AT  the  station  Mrs.  HartwelTs  train  was  found 
to  be  gratifyingly  on  time;  and  in  due  course 
Billy  was  extending  a  cordial  welcome  to  a  tall, 
handsome  woman  who  carried  herself  with  an 
unmistakable  air  of  assured  competence.  Accom- 
panying her  was  a  little  girl  with  big  blue  eyes 
and  yellow  curls. 

'M  am  very  glad  to  see  you  both,"  smiled  Billy, 
holding  out  a  friendly  hand  to  Mrs.  Hartwell, 
and  stooping  to  kiss  the  round  cheek  of  the  little 
girl. 

"  Thank  you,  you  are  very  kind,"  murmured 
the  lady;  "but  —  are  you  alone,  Billy?  Where 
are  the  boys?  " 

"  Uncle  William  is  out  of  town,  and  Cyril  is 
rushed  to  death  and  sent  his  excuses.  Bertram 
did  mean  to  come,  but  he  telephoned  this  morning 
that  he  couldn't,  after  all.  I'm  sorry,  but  I'm 
afraid  you'll  have  to  make  the  best  of  just  me," 
condoled  Billy.  "  They'll  be  out  to  the  house  this 

133 


134  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

evening,  of  course  —  all  but  Uncle  William.  He 
doesn't  return  until  to-morrow." 

"  Oh,  doesn't  he?  "  murmured  the  lady,  reach- 
ing for  her  daughter's  hand. 

Billy  looked  down  with  a  smile. 

"  And  this  is  little  Kate,  I  suppose,"  she  said, 
"  whom  I  haven't  seen  for  such  a  long,  long  time. 
Let  me  see,  you  are  how  old  now?  " 

"  I'm  eight.    I've  been  eight  six  weeks." 

Billy's  eyes  twinkled. 

"  And  you  don't  remember  me,  I  suppose." 

The  little  girl  shook  her  head. 

"  No;  but  I  know  who  you  are,"  she  added, 
with  shy  eagerness.  "  You're  going  to  be  my 
Aunt  Billy,  and  you're  going  to  marry  my  Uncle 
William  —  I  mean,  my  Uncle  Bertram." 

Billy's  face  changed  color.  Mrs.  Hartwell 
gave  a  despairing  gesture. 

"  Kate,  my  dear,  I  told  you  to  be  sure  and 
remember  that  it  was  your  Uncle  Bertram  now. 
You  see,"  she  added  in  a  discouraged  aside  to 
Billy,  "  she  can't  seem  to  forget  the  first  one. 
But  then,  what  can  you  expect?  "  laughed  Mrs. 
Hartwell,  a  little  disagreeably.  "  Such  abrupt 
changes  from  one  brother  to  another  are  some- 
what disconcerting,  you  know." 

Billy  bit  her  lip.  For  a  moment  she  said  nothing, 
then,  a  little  constrainedly,  she  rejoined: 


Sister  Kate  135 


"Perhaps.  Still  —  let  us  hope  we  have  the 
right  one,  now." 

Mrs.  Hart  well  raised  her  eyebrows. 

"  Well,  my  dear,  I'm  not  so  confident  of  that. 
My  choice  has  been  and  always  will  be — Will- 
iam." 

Billy  bit  her  lip  again.  This  time  her  brown 
eyes  flashed  a  little.  • 

"  Is  that  so?  But  you  see,  after  all,  you  aren't 
making  the  —  the  choice."  Billy  spoke  lightly, 
gayly ;  and  she  ended  with  a  bright  little  laugh,  as 
if  to  hide  any  intended  impertinence. 

It  was  Mrs.  Hartwell's  turn  to  bite  her  lip  — 
and  she  did  it. 

"  So  it  seems,"  she  rejoined  frigidly,  after  the 
briefest  of  pauses. 

It  was  not  until  they  were  on  their  way  to 
Corey  Hill  some  time  later  that  Mrs.  Hartwell 
turned  with  the  question: 

"  Cyril  is  to  be  married  in  church,  I  suppose?  " 

"  No.    They  both  preferred  a  home  wedding." 

"  Oh,  what  a  pity!  Church  weddings  are  so 
attractive!  " 

"  To  those  who  like  them,"  amended  Billy  in 
spite  of  herself. 

"To  every  one,  I  think,"  corrected  Mrs. 
Hartwell,  positively. 

Billy  laughed.     She  was  beginning  to  discern 


136  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

that  it  did  not  do  much  harm  —  nor  much  good 
• —  to  disagree  with  her  guest. 

"  It's  in  the  evening,  then,  of  course?  "  pur- 
sued Mrs.  Hartwell. 

"  No;  at  noon." 

"  Oh,  how  could  you  let  them?  " 

"  But  they  preferred  it,  Mrs.  Hartwell." 

"  What  if  they  did?  "  retorted  the  lady,  sharply. 
"  Can't  you  do  as  you  please  in  your  own  home? 
Evening  weddings  are  so  much  prettier!  We 
can't  change  now,  of  course,  with  the  guests  all 
invited.  That  is,  I  suppose  you  do  have  guests!  " 
Mrs.  Hartwell's  voice  was  aggrievedly  despairing. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  smiled  Billy,  demurely.  '  We  have 
guests  invited  —  and  I'm  afraid  we  can't  change 
the  time." 

"  No,  of  course  not;  but  it's  too  bad.  I  con- 
clude there  are  announcements  only,  as  I  got  no 
cards." 

"  Announcements  only,"  bowed  Billy. 

"  I  wish  Cyril  had  consulted  me,  a  little,  about 
this  affair." 

Billy  did  not  answer.  She  could  not  trust  her- 
self to  speak  just  then.  Cyril's  words  of  two 
days  before  were  in  her  ears :  '  Yes,  and  it  will 
give  Big  Kate  time  to  try  to  make  your  breakfast 
supper,  and  your  roses  pinks  —  or  sunflowers." 

In  a  moment  Mrs.  Hartwell  spoke  again. 


Sister  Kate  137 


"  Of  course  a  noon  wedding  is  quite  pretty 
if  you  darken  the  rooms  and  have  lights  —  you're 
going  to  do  that,  I  suppose?  " 

Billy  shook  her  head  slowly. 

"  I'm  afraid  not,  Mrs.  Hartwell.  That  isn't 
the  plan,  now." 

"Not  darken  the  rooms!"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Hartwell.  "  Why,  it  won't  —  "  She  stopped 
suddenly,  and  fell  back  in  her  seat.  The  look  of 
annoyed  disappointment  gave  way  to  one  of  con- 
fident relief.  "  But  then,  that  can  be  changed," 
she  finished  serenely. 

Billy  opened  her  lips,  but  she  shut  them  without 
speaking.  After  a  minute  she  opened  them  again. 

"You  might  consult  —  Cyril  —  about  that," 
she  said  in  a  quiet  voice. 

"  Yes,  I  will,"  nodded  Mrs.  Hartwell,  brightly. 
She  was  looking  pleased  and  happy  again.  "  I 
love  weddings.  Don't  you?  You  can  do  so  much 
with  them!  " 

"  Can  you?  "  laughed  Billy,  irrepressibly. 

"  Yes.  Cyril  is  happy,  of  course.  Still,  I 
can't  imagine  him  in  love  with  any  woman." 

"  I  think  Marie  can." 

"  I  suppose  so.  I  don't  seem  to  remember  her 
much ;  still,  I  think  I  saw  her  once  or  twice  when 
I  was  on  last  June.  Music  teacher,  wasn't  she?  '* 

"  Yes.    She  is  a  very  sweet  girl." 


138  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

"  Hm-m;  I  suppose  so.  Still,  I  think  'twould 
have  been  better  if  Cyril  could  have  selected  some 
one  that  wasn't  musical  —  say  a  more  domestic 
wife.  He's  so  terribly  unpractical  himself  about 
household  matters." 

Billy  gave  a  ringing  laugh  and  stood  up.  The 
car  had  come  to  a  stop  before  her  own  door. 

"  Do  you?  Just  you  wait  till  you  see  Marie's 
trousseau  of  —  egg-beaters  and  cake  tins,"  she 
chuckled. 

Mrs.  Hartwell  looked  blank. 

"  Whatever  in  the  world  do  you  mean,  Billy?  " 
she  demanded  fretfully,  as  she  followed  her  hostess 
from  the  car.  "  I  declare!  aren't  you  ever  going 
to  grow  beyond  making  those  absurd  remarks 
of  yours?  " 

"  Maybe  —  sometime,"  laughed  Billy,  as  she 
took  little  Kate's  hand  and  led  the  way  up  the 
steps. 

Luncheon  in  the  cozy  dining-room  at  Hillside 
that  day  was  not  entirely  a  success.  At  least 
there  were  not  present  exactly  the  harmony  and 
tranquillity  that  are  conceded  to  be  the  best 
sauce  for  one's  food.  The  .wedding,  of  course, 
was  the  all-absorbing  topic  of  conversation;  and 
Billy,  between  Aunt  Hannah's  attempts  to  be 
polite,  Marie's  to  be  sweet-tempered,  Mrs.  Hart- 
well's  to  be  dictatorial,  and  her  own  to  be  pacifying 


Sister  Kate  139 


as  well  as  firm,  had  a  hard  time  of  it.  If  it  had 
not  been  for  two  or  three  diversions  created  by 
little  Kate,  the  meal  would  have  been,  indeed,  a 
dismal  failure. 

But  little  Kate  —  most  of  the  time  the  person- 
ification of  proper  little-girlhood  —  had  a  dis- 
concerting faculty  of  occasionally  dropping  a 
word  here,  or  a  question  there,  with  startling 
effect.  As,  for  instance,  when  she  asked  Billy 
"  Who's  going  to  boss  your  wedding?  "  and  again 
when  she  calmly  informed  her  mother  that  when  she 
was  married  she  was  not  going  to  have  any  wedding 
at  all  to  bother  with,  anyhow.  She  was  going  to 
elope,  and  she  should  choose  somebody's  chauffeur, 
because  he'd  know  how  to  go  the  farthest  and  fast- 
est so  her  mother  couldn't  catch  up  with  her  and 
tell  her  how  she  ought  to  have  done  it. 

After  luncheon  Aunt  Hannah  went  up-stairs 
for  rest  and  recuperation.  Marie  took  little  Kate 
and  went  for  a  brisk  walk  —  for  the  same  pur- 
pose. This  left  Billy  alone  with  her  guest. 

"  Perhaps  you  would  like  a  nap,  too,  Mrs. 
Hartwell,"  suggested  Billy,  as  they  passed  into 
the  living-room.  There  was  a  curious  note  of  al- 
most hopefulness  in  her  voice. 

Mrs.  Hartwell  scorned  naps,  and  she  said  so 
very  emphatically.  She  said  something  else,  too. 

"  Billy,  why  do  you  always  call  me  '  Mrs.  Hart- 


140  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

well '  in  that  stiff,  formal  fashion?    You  used  to 
call  me  '  Aunt  Kate.'  " 

"  But  I  was  very  young  then."  Billy's  voice 
was  troubled.  Billy  had  been  trying  so  hard  for 
the  last  two  hours  to  be  the  graciously  cordial 
hostess  to  this  woman  —  Bertram's  sister. 

"  Very  true.     Then  why  not  '  Kate  '  now?  " 

Billy  hesitated.  She  was  wondering  why  it 
seemed  so  hard  to  call  Mrs.  Hartwell  "  Kate." 

"  Of  course,"  resumed  the  lady,  "  when  you're 
Bertram's  wife  and  my  sister  —  " 

"  Why,  of  course,"  cried  Billy,  in  a  sudden 
flood  of  understanding.  Curiously  enough,  she 
had  never  before  thought  of  Mrs.  Hartwell  as  her 
sister.  "  I  shall  be  glad  to  call  you  '  Kate  '  —  if 
you  like." 

"  Thank  you.  I  shall  like  it  very  much,  Billy," 
nodded  the  other  cordially.  "  Indeed,  my  dear, 
I'm  very  fond  of  you,  and  I  was  delighted  to  hear 
you  were  to  be  my  sister.  If  only  —  it  could  have 
stayed  William  instead  of  Bertram." 

"  But  it  couldn't,"  smiled  Billy.  "  It  wasn't 
William  —  that  I  loved." 

"  But  Bertram  !  —  it's  so  absurd;  " 

"Absurd!"   The  smile  was  gone  now. 
'  Yes.    Forgive  me,  Billy,  but  I  was  about  as 
much  surprised  to  hear  of  Bertram's  engagement 
as  I  was  of  Cyril's." 


Sister  Kate  141 


Billy  grew  a  little  white. 

"But  Bertram  was  never  an  avowed  —  woman- 
hater,  like  Cyril,  was  he?  " 

"  '  Woman-hater  '  -  dear  me,  no!  He  was 
a  woman-lover,  always.  As  if  his  eternal  '  Face 
of  a  Girl '  didn't  prove  that!  Bertram  has  always 
loved  women  —  to  paint.  But  as  for  his  ever 
taking  them  seriously  —  why,  Billy,  what's  the 
matter?  " 

Billy  had  risen  suddenly. 

"  If  you'll  excuse  me,  please,  just  a  few 
minutes,"  Billy  said  very  quietly.  "  I  want  to 
speak  to  Rosa  in  the  kitchen.  I'll  be  back  — 
soon." 

In  the  kitchen  Billy  spoke  to  Rosa  —  she  won- 
dered afterwards  what  she  said.  Certainly  she  did 
not  stay  in  the  kitchen  long  enough  to  say  much. 
In  her  own  room  a  minute  later,  with  the  door 
fast  closed,  she  took  from  her  table  the  photo- 
graph of  Bertram  and  held  it  in  her  two  hands, 
talking  to  it  softly,  but  a  little  wildly. 

"  I  didn't  listen !  I  didn't  stay!  Do  you  hear?' 
I  came  to  you.  She  shall  not  say  anything  that 
will  make  trouble  between  you  and  me.  I've 
suffered  enough  through  her  already!  And  she 
doesn't  know  —  she  didn't  know  before,  and  she 
doesn't  now.  She's  only  imagining.  I  will  not  — • 
not  —  not  believe  that  you  love  me  —  just  to 


142  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

paint.  No  matter  what  they  say^ — all  of  them! 
I  will  not!  " 

Billy  put  the  photograph  back  on  the  table 
then,  and  went  down-stairs  to  her  guest.  She 
smiled  brightly,  though  her  face  was  a  little  pale. 

"  I  wondered  if  perhaps  you  wouldn't  like  some 
music,"  she  said  pleasantly,  going  straight  to 
the  piano. 

"  Indeed  I  would!  "   agreed  Mrs.  Hartwell. 

Billy  sat  down  then  and  played  —  played  as 
Mrs.  Hartwell  had  never  heard  her  play  before. 

"  Why,  Billy,  you  amaze  me,"  she  cried,  when 
the  pianist  stopped  and  whirled  about.  "  I  had 
no  idea  you  could  play  like  that!  " 

Billy  smiled  enigmatically.  Billy  was  thinking 
that  Mrs.  Hartwell  would,  indeed,  have  been 
surprised  if  she  had  known  that  in  that  playing 
were  herself,  the  ride  home,  the  luncheon,  Bertram, 
and  the  girl  —  whom  Bertram  did  not  love  only 
to  paint! 


CHAPTER  XIII 

CYRIL   AND   A   WEDDING 

THE  twelfth  was  a  beautiful  day.  Clear,  frosty 
air  set  the  blood  to  tingling  and  the  eyes  to  spark- 
ling, even  if  it  were  not  your  wedding  day;  while 
if  it  were  — 

It  was  Marie  Hawthorn's  wedding  day,  and 
certainly  her  eyes  sparkled  and  her  blood  tingled 
as  she  threw  open  the  window  of  her  room  and 
breathed  long  and  deep  of  the  fresh  morning  air 
before  going  down  to  breakfast. 

"  They  say  '  Happy  is  the  bride  that  the  sun 
shines  on,'  "  she  whispered  softly  to  an  English 
sparrow  that  cocked  his  eye  at  her  from  a  neigh- 
boring tree  branch.  "As  if  a  bride  wouldn't 
be  happy,  sun  or  no  sun,"  she  scoffed  tenderly, 
as  she  turned  to  go  down-stairs. 

As  it  happens,  however,  tingling  blood  and 
sparkling  eyes  are  a  matter  of  more  than  weather, 
or  even  weddings,  as  was  proved  a  little  later 
when  the  telephone  bell  rang. 

Kate  answered  the  ring. 
143 


144  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

"  Hullo,  is  that  you,  Kate?  "  called  a  despair- 
ing voice. 

"  Yes.  Good  morning,  Bertram.  Isn't  this 
a  fine  day  for  the  wedding?  " 

"  Fine!  Oh,  yes,  I  suppose  so,  though  I  must 
confess  I  haven't  noticed  it  —  and  you  wouldn't, 
if  you  had  a  lunatic  on  your  hands." 

11  A  lunatic!" 

1  Yes.  Maybe  you  have,  though.  Is  Marie 
rampaging  around  the  house  like  a  wild  creature, 
and  asking  ten  questions  and  making  twenty 
threats  to  the  minute?  " 

"Certainly  not!  Don't  be  absurd,  Bertram. 
What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  See  here,  Kate,  that  show  comes  off  at  twelve 
sharp,  doesn't  it?  " 

"  Show,  indeed!  "  retorted  Kate,  indignantly. 
:'  The  wedding  is  at  noon  sharp  —  as  the  best  man 
should  know  very  well." 

"  All  right;  then  tell  Billy,  please,  to  see  that  it 
is  sharp,  or  I  won't  answer  for  the  consequences." 

'  What  do  you  mean?    What  is  the  matter?  " 

"  Cyril.  He's  broken  loose  at  last.  I've  been 
expecting  it  all  along.  I've  simply  marvelled  at 
the  meekness  with  which  he  has  submitted  him- 
self to  be  tied  up  with  white  ribbons  and  topped 
with  roses." 

"Nonsense,  Bertram!" 


Cyril  and  a  Wedding  145 

"  Well,  it  amounts  to  that.  Anyhow,  he  thinks 
it  does,  and  he's  wild.  I  wish  you  could  have 
heard  the  thunderous  performance  on  his  piano 
with  which  he  woke  me  up  this  morning.  Billy 
says  he  plays  everything  —  his  past,  present, 
and  future.  All  is,  if  he  was  playing  his  future 
this  morning,  I  pity  the  girl  who's  got  to  live  it 
with  him." 

"  Bertram!  " 

Bertram  chuckled  remorselessly. 

"  Well,  I  do.  But  I'll  warrant  he  wasn't  play- 
ing his  future  this  morning.  He  was  playing  his 
present  —  the  wedding.  You  see,  he's  just  waked 
up  to  the  fact  that  it'll  be  a  perfect  orgy  of  women 
and  other  confusion,  and  he  doesn't  like  it.  All 
the  samee,  I've  had  to  assure  him  just  fourteen 
times  this  morning  that  the  ring,  the  license,  the 
carriage,  the  minister's  fee,  and  my  sanity  are 
all  O.  K.  When  he  isn't  asking  questions  he's 
making  threats  to  snake  the  parson  up  there  an 
hour  ahead  of  time  and  be  off  with  Marie  before  a 
soul  comes." 

"  What  an  absurd  idea!  " 

"  Cyril  doesn't  think  so.  Indeed,  Kate,  I've 
had  a  hard  struggle  to  convince  him  that  the 
guests  wouldn't  think  it  the  most  delightful  ex- 
perience of  their  lives  if  they  should  come  and 
find  the  ceremony  over  with  and  the  bride  gone." 


146  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

"  Well,  you  remind  Cyril,  please,  that  there 
are  other  people  besides  himself  concerned  in 
this  wedding,"  observed  Kate,  icily. 

"  I  have,"  purred  Bertram,  "  and  he  says  all 
right,  let  them  have  it,  then.  He's  gone  now  to 
look  up  proxy  marriages,  I  believe." 

"  Proxy  marriages,  indeed!  Come,  come,  Ber- 
tram, I've  got  something  to  do  this  morning 
besides  to  stand  here  listening  to  your  nonsense. 
See  that  you  and  Cyril  get  here  on  time  —  that's 
all!  "  And  she  hung  up  the  receiver  with  an  im- 
patient jerk. 

She  turned  to  confront  the  startled  eyes  of  the 
bride  elect. 

"What  is  it?  Is  anything  wrong  —  with 
Cyril?  "  faltered  Marie. 

Kate  laughed  and  raised  her  eyebrows  slightly. 

"  Nothing  but  a  little  stage  fright,  my  dear." 

"Stage  fright!" 

"  Yes.  Bertram  says  he's  trying  to  find  some 
one  to  play  his  role,  I  believe,  in  the  ceremony." 

"  Mrs.  Hartwell!  " 

At  the  look  of  dismayed  terror  that  came  into 
Marie's  face,  Mrs.  Hartwell  laughed  reassuringly. 
"  There,  there,  dear  child,  don't  look  so  horror- 
stricken.  There  probably  never  was  a  man  yet 
who  wouldn't  have  fled  from  the  wedding  part 
of  his  marriage  if  he  could;  and  you  know  how 


Cyril  and  a  Wedding  147 

Cyril  hates  fuss  and  feathers.  The  wonder  to  me 
is  that  he's  stood  it  as  long  as  he  has.  I  thought  I 
saw  it  coming,  last  night  at  the  rehearsal  —  and 
now  I  know  I  did." 

Marie  still  looked  distressed. 

"But  he  never  said  —  I  thought  —  "  She 
stopped  helplessly. 

"  Of  course  he  didn't,  child.  He  never  said 
anything  but  that  he  loved  you,  and  he  never 
thought  anything  but  that  you  were  going  to  be 
his.  Men  never  do  —  till  the  wedding  day.  Then 
they  never  think  of  anything  but  a  place  to  run," 
she  finished  laughingly;  as  she  began  to  arrange 
on  a  stand  the  quantity  of  little  white  boxes 
waiting  for  her. 

"  But  if  he'd  told  me  —  in  time,  I  wouldn't  have 
had  a  thing  — -  but  the  minister,"  faltered  Marie. 

"  And  when  you  think  so  much  of  a  pretty 
wedding,  too?  Nonsense!  It  isn't  good  for  a 
man,  to  give  up  to  his  whims  like  that!  " 

Marie's  cheeks  grew  a  deeper  pink.  Her  nos- 
trils dilated  a  little. 

"  It  wouldn't  be  a  '  whim,*  Mrs.  Hartwell,  and 
I  should  be  glad  to  give  up,"  she  said  with  de- 
cision. 

Mrs.  Hartwell  laughed  again,  her  amused  eyes 
on  Marie's  face. 

"  Dear  me,  child!  don't  you  know  that  if  men 


148  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

had  their  way,  they'd  —  well,  if  men  married 
men  there' d  never  be  such  a  thing  in  the  world 
as  a  shower  bouquet  or  a  piece  of  wedding  cake!  " 

There   was   no   reply.     A   little   precipitately 
Marie   turned   and   hurried   away.     A   moment , 
later  she  was  laying  a  restraining  hand  on  Billy, 
who  was  filling  tall  vases  with  superb  long-stemmed 
roses  in  the  kitchen. 

"  Billy,  please,"  she  panted,  "  couldn't  we 
do  without  those?  Couldn't  we  send  them  to 
some  —  some  hospital?  —  and  the  wedding  cake, 
too,  and  —  " 

"  The  wedding  cake  —  to  some  hospital!  " 

"  No,  of  course  not  —  to  the  hospital.  It 
would  make  them  sick  to  eat  it,  wouldn't  it?  " 
That  there  was  no  shadow  of  a  smile  on  Marie's 
face  showed  how  desperate,  indeed,  was  her  state 
of  mind.  "  I  only  meant  that  I  didn't  want  them 
myself,  nor  the  shower  bouquet,  nor  the  rooms 
darkened,  nor  little  Kate  as  the  flower  girl  —  and 
would  you  mind  very  much  if  I  asked  you  not 
to  be  my  maid  of  honor?  " 

"  Marie!  " 

Marie  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  then  and 
began  to  sob  brokenly;  so  there  was  nothing  for 
Billy  to  do  but  to  take  her  into  her  arms  with 
soothing  little  murmurs  and  pettings.  By  degrees, 
then,  the  whole  story  came  out. 


Cyril  and  a  Wedding  149 

Billy  almost  laughed  —  but  she  almost  cried, 
too.  Then  she  said: 

"  Dearie,  I  don't  believe  Cyril  feels  or  acts 
half  so  bad  as  Bertram  and  Kate  make  out,  and, 
anyhow,  if  he  did,  it's  too  late  now  to  —  to  send 
the  wedding  cake  to  the  hospital,  or  make  any 
other  of  the  little  changes  you  suggest."  Billy's 
lips  puckered  into  a  half-smile,  but  her  eyes  were 
grave.  "  Besides,  there  are  your  music  pupils 
trimming  the  living-room  this  minute  with  ever- 
green, there's  little  Kate  making  her  flower-girl 
wreath,  and  Mrs.  Hartwell  stacking  cake  boxes 
in  the  hall,  to  say  nothing  of  Rosa  gloating  over 
the  best  china  in  the  dining-room,  and  Aunt 
Hannah  putting  purple  bows  into  the  new  lace 
cap  she's  counting  on  wearing.  Only  think  how 
disappointed  they'd  all  be  if  I  should  say:  '  Never 
mind  —  stop  that.  Marie's  just  going  to  have  a 
minister.  No  fuss,  no  feathers! '  Why,  dearie, 
even  the  roses  are  hanging  their  heads  for  grief," 
she  went  on  mistily,  lifting  with  gentle  fingers 
one  of  the  full-petalled  pink  beauties  near  her. 
"  Besides,  there's  your  —  guests." 

"Oh,  of  course,  I  knew  I  couldn't  —  really," 
sighed  Marie,  as  she  turned  to  go  up-stairs,  all 
the  light  and  joy  gone  from  her  face. 

Billy,  once  assured  that  Marie  was  out  of 
hearing,  ran  to  the  telephone. 


150  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

Bertram  answered. 

"  Bertram,  tell  Cyril  I  want  to  speak  to  him, 
please." 

"  All  right,  dear,  but  go  easy.  Better  strike 
up  your  tuning  fork  to  find  his  pitch  to-day. 
You'll  discover  it's  a  high  one,  all  right." 

A  moment  later  Cyril's  tersely  nervous  "  Good 
morning,  Billy,"  came  across  the  line. 

Billy  drew  in  her  breath  and  cast  a  hurriedly 
apprehensive  glance  over  her  shoulder  to  make 
sure  Marie  was  not  near. 

"  Cyril,"  she  called  in  a  low  voice,  "  if  you  care 
a  shred  for  Marie,  for  heaven's  sake  call  her  up 
and  tell  her  that  you  dote  on  pink  roses,  and  *pink 
ribbons,  and  pink  breakfasts  -  -  and  pink  wedding 
cake!" 

"  But  I  don't." 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  do  —  to-day!  You  would  —  if 
you  could  see  Marie  now." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  Nothing,  only  she  overheard  part  of  Bertram's 
nonsensical  talk  with  Kate  a  little  while  ago,  and 
she's  ready  to  cast  the  last  ravelling  of  white  satin 
and  conventionality  behind  her,  and  go  with  you 
to  the  justice  of  the  peace." 

"  Sensible  girl! " 

'*  Yes,  but  she  can't,  you  know,  with  fifty 
guests  coming  to  the  wedding,  and  twice  as  many 


Cyril  and  a  Wedding  151 

more  to  the  reception.  Honestly,  Cyril,  she's 
broken-hearted.  You  must  do  something.  She's 
—  coming!"  And  the  receiver  clicked  sharply 
.into  place. 

Five  minutes  later  Marie  was  called  to  the 
'telephone.  Dejectedly,  wistful-eyed,  she  went. 
Just  what  were  the  words  that  hummed  across  the 
wire  into  the  pink  little  ear  of  the  bride-to-be, 
Billy  never  knew;  but  a  Marie  that  was  anything 
but  wistful-eyed  and  dejected  left  the  telephone 
a  little  later,  and  was  heard  very  soon  in  the  room 
above  trilling  merry  snatches  of  a  little  song. 
Contentedly,  then,  Billy  went  back  to  her  roses. 

It  was  a  pretty  wedding,  a  very  pretty  wedding. 
Every  one  said  that.  The  pink  and  green  of  the 
decorations,  the  soft  lights  (Kate  had  had  her 
way  about  darkening  the  rooms),  the  pretty  frocks 
and  smiling  faces  of  the  guests  all  helped.  Then 
there  were  the  dainty  flower  girl,  little  Kate,  the 
charming  maid  of  honor,  Billy,  the  stalwart, 
handsome  best  man,  Bertram,  to  say  nothing  of 
the  delicately  beautiful  bride,  who  looked  like 
some  fairy  visitor  from  another  world  in  the  floating 
shimmer  of  her  gossamer  silk  and  tulle.  There 
was,  too,  not  quite  unnoticed,  the  bridegroom; 
tall,  of  distinguished  bearing,  and  with  features 
that  were  clear  cut  and  —  to-day  —  rather  pale. 

Then  came  the  reception  —  the  "  women  and 


152  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

confusion"  of  Cyril's  fears  —  followed  by  the 
going  away  of  the  bride  and  groom  with  its  merry 
warfare  of  confetti  and  old  shoes. 

At  four  o'clock,  however,  with  only  William 
and  Bertram  remaining  for  guests,  something  like 
quiet  descended  at  last  on  the  little  house. 

"  Well,  it's  over,"  sighed  Billy,  dropping  ex- 
haustedly  into  a  big  chair  in  the  living-room. 

"  And  well  over,"  supplemented  Aunt  Hannah, 
covering  her  white  shawl  with  a  warmer  blue  one. 

"  Yes,  I  think  it  was,"  nodded  Kate.  "  It 
was  really  a  very  pretty  wedding." 

"  With  your  help,  Kate  —  eh?  "  teased  William. 

"  Well,  I  natter  myself  I  did  do  some  good," 
bridled  Kate,  as  she  turned  to  help  little  Kate 
take  the  flower  wreath  from  her  head. 

"  Even  if  you  did  hurry  into  my  room  and  scare 
me  into  conniption  fits  telling  me  I'd  be  late," 
laughed  Billy. 

Kate  tossed  her  head. 

"  Well,  how  was  I  to  know  that  Aunt  Hannah's 
clock  only  meant  half -past  eleven  when  it  struck 
twelve?"  she  retorted. 

Everybody  laughed. 

"Oh,  well,  it  was  a  pretty  wedding,"  declared 
William,  with  a  long  sigh. 

"  It'll  do  —  for  an  understudy,"  said  Bertram 
softly,  for  Billy's  ears  alone. 


Cyril  and  a  Wedding  153 

Only  the  added  color  and  the  swift  glance 
showed  that  Billy  heard,  for  when  she  spoke  she 
said: 

"  And  didn't  Cyril  behave  beautifully?  'Most 
every  time  I  looked  at  him  he  was  talking  to  some 
woman." 

"  Oh,  no,  he  wasn't  —  begging  your  pardon, 
my  dear,"  objected  Bertram.  "  I  watched  him, 
too,  even  more  closely  than  you  did,  and  it  was 
always  the  woman  who  was  talking  to  Cyril!  " 

Billy  laughed. 

"  Well,  anyhow,"  she  maintained,  "  he  listened. 
He  didn't  run  away." 

"  As  if  a  bridegroom  could!  "  cried  Kate. 

"I'm  going  to,"  avowed  Bertram,  his  nose  in 
the  air. 

11  Pooh! "  scoffed  Kate.  Then  she  added 
eagerly:  "  You  must  be  married  in  church,  Billy, 
and  in  the  evening." 

Bertram's  nose  came  suddenly  out  of  the  air. 
His  eyes  met  Kate's  squarely. 

"  Billy  hasn't  decided  yet  how  she  does  want 
to  be  married,"  he  said  with  unnecessary  emphasis. 

Billy  laughed  and  interposed  a  quick  change  of 
subject. 

11  I  think  people  had  a  pretty  good  time,  too, 
for  a  wedding,  don't  you?  "  she  asked.  "  I  was 
sorry  Mary  Jane  couldn't  be  here  —  'twould  have 


154  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

been  such  a  good  chance  for  him  to  meet  our 
friends." 

"As  —  Mary  Jane?"  asked  Bertram,  a  little 
stiffly. 

"  Really,  my  dear,"  murmured  Aunt  Hannah, 
"  I  think  it  would  be  more  respectful  to  call  him 
by  his  name." 

"  By  the  way,  what  is  his  name?  "  questioned 
William. 

"  That's  what  we  don't  know,"  laughed  Billy. 

"  Well,  you  know  the  '  Arkwright,'  don't  you?  " 
put  in  Bertram.  Bertram,  too,  laughed,  but  it 
was  a  little  forcedly.  "  I  suppose  if  you  knew  his 
name  was  '  Methuselah,'  you  wouldn't  call  him 
that  —  yet,  would  you?  " 

Billy  clapped  her  hands,  and  threw  a  merry 
glance  at  Aunt  Hannah. 

"  There!  we  never  thought  of  '  Methuselah,'  " 
she  gurgled  gleefully.  ' '  Maybe  it  is  '  Methuselah, ' 
now  —  '  Methuselah  John  ' !  You  see,  he's  told 
us  to  try  to  guess  it,"  she  explained,  turning  to 
William;  "but,  honestly,  I  don't  believe,  whatever 
it  is,  I'll  ever  think  of  him  as  anything  but '  Mary 
Jane.'  " 

;<  Well,  as  far  as  I  can  judge,  he  has  nobody 

but  himself  to  thank  for  that,  so  he  can't  do  any 

complaining,"  smiled  William,  as  he  rose  to  go. 

'  Well,  how  about  it,  Bertram?    I  suppose  you're 


Cyril  and  a  Wedding  155 

going  to  stay  a  while  to  comfort  the  lonely  —  eh, 
boy?  " 

"  Of  course  he  is  —  and  so  are  you,  too,  Uncle 
William,"  spoke  up  Billy,  with  affectionate  cor- 
diality. "  As  if  I'd  let  you  go  back  to  a  forlori( 
dinner  in  that  great  house  to-night!  Indeed, 
no!" 

William  smiled,  hesitated,  and  sat  down. 

"  Well,  of  course — "  he  began. 
1  Yes,    of    course,"    finished    Billy,    quickly. 
"I'll  telephone  Pete  that  you'll  stay  here  —  both 
of  you." 

It  was  at  this  point  that  little  Kate,  who  had 
been  turning  interested  eyes  from  one  brother 
to  the  other,  interposed  a  clear,  high-pitched 
question. 

"  Uncle  William,  didn't  you  want  to  marry  my 
going- to-be-Aunt  Billy?  " 

"Kate!"  gasped  her  mother,  "didn't  I  tell 
you  —  "  Her  voice  trailed  into  an  incoherent 
murmur  of  remonstrance. 

Billy  blushed.  Bertram  said  a  low  word  under 
his  breath.  Aunt  Hannah's  "  Oh,  my  grief  and 
conscience!  "  was  almost  a  groan. 

William  laughed  lightly. 

"Well,  my  little  lady,"  he  suggested,  "let 
us  put  it  the  other  way  and  say  that  quite  probably 
she  didn't  want  to  marry  me." 


156  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

"  Does  she  want  to  marry  Uncle  Bertram?  " 

"  Kate!  "  gasped  Billy  and  Mrs.  Hartwell  to- 
gether this  time,  fearful  of  what  might  be  coming 
next. 

"  We'll  hope  so,"  nodded  Uncle  William,  speak- 
ing in  a  cheerfully  matter-of-fact  voice,  intended 
to  discourage  curiosity. 

The  little  girl  frowned  and  pondered.  Her 
elders  cast  about  in  their  minds  for  a  speedy 
change  of  subject;  but  their  somewhat  scattered 
wits  were  not  quick  enough.  It  was  little  Kate 
who  spoke  next. 

"  Uncle  William,  would  she  have  got  Uncle 
Cyril  if  Aunt  Marie  hadn't  nabbed  him  first?  " 

"  Kate!  "  The  word  was  a  chorus  of  dismay 
this  time. 

Mrs.  Hartwell  struggled  to  her  feet. 

"  Come,  come,  Kate,  we  must  go  up-stairs  —  to 
bed,"  she  stammered. 

The  little  girl  drew  back  indignantly. 

"  To  bed?  Why,  mama,  I  haven't  had  my 
supper  yet!  " 

"What?  Oh,  sure  enough  —  the  lights!  I 
forgot.  Well,  then,  come  up  —  to  change  your 
dress,"  finished  Mrs.  Hartwell,  as  with  a  despair- 
ing look  and  gesture  she  led  her  young  daughter 
from  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

M.   J.   MAKES  ANOTHER  MOVE 

BILLY  came  down-stairs  on  the  thirteenth  of 
December  to  find  everywhere  the  peculiar  flatness 
that  always  follows  a  day  which  for  weeks  has 
been  the  focus  of  one's  aims  and  thoughts  and 
labor. 

"  It's  just  as  if  everything  had  stopped  at  Marie's 
wedding,  and  there  wasn't  anything  more  to  do," 
she  complained  to  Aunt  Hannah  at  the  breakfast 
table.  "  Everything  seems  so  —  queer!  " 

"  It  won't  —  long,  dear,"  smiled  Aunt  Hannah, 
tranquilly,  as  she  buttered  her  roll,  "  specially 
after  Bertram  comes  back.  How  long  does  he 
stay  in  New  York?  " 

"  Only  three  days;  but  I'm  just  sure  it's  going 
to  seem  three  weeks,  now,"  sighed  Billy.  "  But 
he  simply  had  to  go  —  else  he  wouldn't  have 
gone." 

"  I've  no  doubt  of  it,"  observed  Aunt  Hannah. 
And  at  the  meaning  emphasis  of  her  words, 

157 


158  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

Billy  laughed  a  little.  After  a  minute  she  said 
aggrievedly : 

"  I  had  supposed  that  I  could  at  least  have  a  sort 
of  '  after  the  ball '  celebration  this  morning  picking 
up  and  straightening  things  around.  But  John 
and  Rosa  have  done  it  all.  There  isn't  so  much 
as  a  rose  leaf  anywhere  on  the  floor.  Of  course 
most  of  the  flowers  went  to  the  hospital  last  night, 
anyway.  As  for  Marie's  room  —  it  looks  as 
spick-and-span  as  if  it  had  never  seen  a  scrap 
of  ribbon  or  an  inch  of  tulle." 

"  But  —  the  wedding  presents?  " 

"  All  carried  down  to  the  kitchen  and  half 
packed  now,  ready  to  go  over  to  the  new  home. 
John  says  he'll  take  them  over  in  Peggy  this  after- 
noon, after  he  takes  Mrs.  HartwelTs  trunk  to 
Uncle  William's." 

"  Well,  you  can  at  least  go  over  to  the  apart- 
ment and  work,"  suggested  Aunt  Hannah,  hope- 
fully. 

"  Humph!  Can  I?  "  scoffed  Billy.  "  As  if  I 
could  —  when  Marie  left  strict  orders  that  not 
one  thing  was  to  be  touched  till  she  got  here. 
They  arranged  everything  but  the  presents  before 
the  wedding,  anyway;  and  Marie  wants  to  fix 
those  herself  after  she  gets  back.  Mercy!  Aunt 
Hannah,  if  I  should  so  much  as  move  a  plate  one 
inch  in  the  china  closet,  Marie  would  know  it  — 


M.  J.  Makes  Another  Move        159 

and  change  it  when  she  got  home,"  laughed  Billy, 
as  she  rose  from  the  table.  "  No,  I  can't  go  to 
work  over  there." 

"  But  there's  your  music,  my  dear.    You  said  , 
you  were  going  to  write  some  new  songs  after  the 
wedding." 

"  I  was,"  sighed  Billy,  walking  to  the  window, 
and  looking  listlessly  at  the  bare,  brown  world 
outside;  "  but  I  can't  write  songs  —  when  there 
aren't  any  songs  in  my  head  to  write." 

"  No,  of  course  not;  but  they'll  come,  dear,  in 
time.  You're  tired,  now,"  soothed  Aunt  Hannah, 
as  she  turned  to  leave  the  room. 

"  It's  the  reaction,  of  course,"  murmured  Aunt 
Hannah  to  herself,  on  the  way  up-stairs.  "  She's 
had  the  whole  thing  on  her  hands  —  dear  child!  " 

A  few  minutes  later,  from  the  living-room, 
came  a  plaintive  little  minor  melody.  Billy  was 
at  the  piano. 

Kate  and  little  Kate  had,  the  night  before,  gone 
home  with  William.  It  had  been  a  sudden  de- 
cision, brought  about  by  the  realization  that 
Bertram's  trip  to  New  York  would  leave  William 
alone.  Her  trunk  was  to  be  carried  there  to-day, 
and  she  would  leave  for  home  from  there,  at  the 
end  of  a  two  or  three  days'  visit. 

It  began  to  snow  at  twelve  o'clock.  All  the 
morning  the  sky  had  been  gray  and  threatening; 


160  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

and  the  threats  took  visible  shape  at  noon  in 
myriads  of  white  snow  feathers  that  filled  the 
air  to  the  blinding  point,  and  turned  the  brown, 
bare  world  into  a  thing  of  fairylike  beauty.  Billy, 
however,  with  a  rare  frown  upon  her  face,  looked 
out  upon  it  with  disapproving  eyes. 

"  I  was  going  in  town  —  and  I  believe  I'll  go 
now,"  she  cried. 

"  Don't,  dear,  please  don't,"  begged  Aunt 
Hannah.  "  See,  the  flakes  are  smaller  now,  and 
the  wind  is  coming  up.  We're  in  for  a  blizzard  — 
I'm  sure  we  are.  And  you  know  you  have  some 
cold,  already." 

"  All  right,"  sighed  Billy.  "  Then  it's  me  for  the 
knitting  work  and  the  fire,  I  suppose,"  she  finished, 
with  a  whimsicality  that  did  not  hide  the  wistful 
disappointment  of  her  voice. 

She  was  not  knitting,  however,  she  was  sewing 
with  Aunt  Hannah  when  at  four  o'clock  Rosa 
•<rought  in  the  card. 

Billy  glanced  at  the  name,  then  sprang  to  her 
feet  with  a  glad  little  cry. 

"  It's  Mary  Jane! "  she  exclaimed,  as  Rosa 
disappeared.  "  Now  wasn't  he  a  dear  to  think 
to  come  to-day?  You'll  be  down,  won't  you?  " 

Aunt  Hannah  smiled  even  while  she  frowned. 

"Oh,  Billy!"  she  remonstrated.  "Yes,  I'll 
come  down,  of  course,  a  little  later,  and  I'm  glad 


M.  J.  Makes  Another  Move        161 

Mr.  Arkwright  came,"  she  said  with  reproving 
emphasis. 

Billy  laughed  and  threw  a  mischievous  glance 
over  her  shoulder. 

"  All  right,"  she  nodded.  "  I'll  go  and  tell 
Mr.  Arkwright  you'll  be  down  directly." 

In  the  living-room  Billy  greeted  her  visitor 
with  a  frankly  cordial  hand. 

"  How  did  you  know,  Mr.  Arkwright,  that  I 
was  feeling  specially  restless  and  lonesome  to- 
day? "  she  demanded. 

A  glad  light  sprang  to  the  man's  dark  eyes. 

"  I  didn't  know  it,"  he  rejoined.  "  I  only 
knew  that  I  was  specially  restless  and  lonesome 
myself." 

Arkwright's  voice  was  not  quite  steady.  The 
unmistakable  friendliness  in  the  girl's  words  and 
manner  had  sent  a  quick  throb  of  joy  to  his 
heart.  Her  evident  delight  in  his  coming  had 
filled  him  with  rapture.  He  could  not  know  that 
it  was  only  the  chill  of  the  snowstorm  that  had 
given  warmth  to  her  handclasp,  the  dreariness 
of  the  day  that  had  made  her  greeting  so  cordial, 
the  loneliness  of  a  maiden  whose  lover  is  away 
that  had  made  his  presence  so  welcome. 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  you  came,  anyway,"  sighed 
Billy,  contentedly;  "  though  I  suppose  I  ought 
to  be  sorry  that  you  were  lonesome  —  but  I'm 


162  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

afraid  I'm  not,  for  now  you'll  know  just  how  I 
felt,  so  you  won't  mind  if  I'm  a  little  wild  and  er- 
ratic. You  see,  the  tension  has  snapped,"  she 
added  laughingly,  as  she  seated  herself. 

"  Tension?  " 

"  The  wedding,  you  know.  For  so  many  weeks 
we've  been  seeing  just  December  twelfth,  that 
we'd  apparently  forgotten  all  about  the  thirteenth 
that  came  after  it ;  so  when  I  got  up  this  morn- 
ing I  felt  just  as  you  do  when  the  clock  has 
stopped  ticking.  But  it  was  a  lovely  wedding, 
Mr.  Arkwright.  I'm  sorry  you  could  not  be 
here." 

"Thank  you;  so  am  I  —  though  usually,  I 
will  confess,  I'm  not  much  good  at  attending 
'  functions  '  and  meeting  strangers.  As  perhaps 
you've  guessed,  Miss  Neilson,  I'm  not  particularly 
a  society  chap." 

"  Of  course  you  aren't!  People  who  are  doing 
things  —  real  things  —  seldom  are.  But  we  aren't 
the  society  kind  ourselves,  you  know  —  not 
the  capital  S  kind.  We  like  sociability,  which  is 
vastly  different  from  liking  Society.  Oh,  we  have 
friends,  to  be  sure,  who  dote  on  '  pink  teas  and 
purple  pageants,'  as  Cyril  calls  them;  and  we  even 
go  ourselves  sometimes.  But  if  you  had  been  here 
yesterday,  Mr.  Arkwright,  you'd  have  met  lots 
like  yourself,  men  and  women  who  are  doing 


M.  J.  Makes  Another  Move        163 

things:  singing,  playing,  painting,  illustrating, 
writing.  Why,  we  even  had  a  poet,  sir  —  only 
he  didn't  have  long  hair,  so  he  didn't  look  the 
part  a  bit,"  she  finished  laughingly. 

"  Is  long  hair  —  necessary  —  for  poets?  "  Ark- 
wright's  smile  was  quizzical. 

"  Dear  me,  no;  not  now.  But  it  used  to  be, 
didn't  it?  And  for  painters,  too.  But  now  they 
look  just  like  —  folks." 

Arkwright  laughed. 

"  It  isn't  possible  that  you  are  sighing  for  the 
velvet  coats  and  flowing  ties  of  the  past,  is  it, 
Miss  Neilson?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  it  is,"  dimpled  Billy.  "  I  love 
velvet  coats  and  flowing  ties!  " 

"  May  singers  wear  them?  I  shall  don  them  at 
once,  anyhow,  at  a  venture,"  declared  the  man, 
promptly. 

Billy  smiled  and  shook  her  head. 

"  I  don't  think  you  will.  You  all  like  your 
horrid  fuzzy  tweeds  and  worsteds  too  well!  " 

"  You  speak  with  feeling.  One  would  almost 
suspect  that  you  already  had  tried  to  bring  about 
a  reform  —  and  failed.  Perhaps  Mr.  Cyril,  now,  - 
or  Mr.  Bertram  —  "  Arkwright  stopped  with' 
a  whimsical  smile. 

Billy  flushed  a  little.  As  it  happened,  she  had, 
indeed,  had  a  merry  tilt  with  Bertram  on  that 


164  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

very  subject,  and  he  had  laughingly  promised 
that  his  wedding  present  to  her  would  be  a  velvet 
house  coat  for  himself.  It  was  on  the  point  of 
Billy's  tongue  now  to  say  this  to  Arkwright; 
but  another  glance  at  the  provoking  smile  on 
his  lips  drove  the  words  back  in  angry  confusion. 
For  the  second  time,  in  the  presence  of  this  man, 
Billy  found  herself  unable  to  refer  to  her  engage- 
ment to  Bertram  Henshaw  —  though  this  time 
she  did  not  in  the  least  doubt  that  Arkwright  al- 
ready knew  of  it. 

With  a  little  gesture  of  playful  scorn  she  rose 
and  went  to  the  piano. 

"  Come,  let  us  try  some  duets,"  she  suggested. 
"  That's  lots  nicer  than  quarrelling  over  velvet 
coats;  and  Aunt  Hannah  will  be  down  presently 
to  hear  us  sing." 

Before  she  had  ceased  speaking,  Arkwright  was 
at  her  side  with  an  exclamation  of  eager  acqui- 
escence. 

It  was  after  the  second  duet  that  Arkwright 
asked,  a  little  diffidently. 

"  Have  you  written  any  new  songs  lately?  " 

"  No." 

"  You're  going  to?  " 

"  Perhaps  —  if  I  find  one  to  write." 

11  You  mean  —  you  have  no  words?  " 

"  Yes  —  and  no.     I  have  some  words,  both  of 


M.  J.  Makes  Another  Move        165 

my  own  and  other  people's;  but  I  haven't  found 
in  any  one  of  them,  yet  —  a  melody." 

Arkwright  hesitated.  His  right  hand  went 
almost  to  his  inner  coat  pocket  —  then  fell  back 
at  his  side.  The  next  moment  he  picked  up  a 
sheet  of  music. 

"  Are  you  too  tired  to  try  this  ?  "  he 
asked. 

A  puzzled  frown  appeared  on  Billy's  face. 

"Why,  no,  but  —  " 

;<  Well,  children,  I've  come  down  to  hear  the 
music,"  announced  Aunt  Hannah,  smilingly, 
from  the  doorway;  "  only  —  Billy,  will  you  run 
up  and  get  my  pink  shawl,  too?  This  room  is 
colder  than  I  thought,  and  there's  only  the  white 
one  down  here." 

"  Of  course,"  cried  Billy,  rising  at  once.  "  You 
shall  have  a  dozen  shawls,  if  you  like,"  she  laughed, 
as  she  left  the  room. 

What  a  cozy  time  it  was  —  the  hour  that 
followed,  after  Billy  returned  with  the  pink  shawl! 
Outside,  the  wind  howled  at  the  windows  and 
flung  the  snow  against  the  glass  in  sleety  crashes. 
Inside,  the  man  and  the  girl  sang  duets  until  they  , 
were  tired;  then,  with  Aunt  Hannah,  they  feasted 
royally  on  the  buttered  toast,  tea,  and  frosted 
cakes  that  Rosa  served  on  a  little  table  before  the 
roaring  fire.  It  was  then  that  Arkwright  talked 


166  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

of  himself,  telling  them  something  of  his  studies, 
and  of  the  life  he  was  living. 

"  After  all,  you  see  there's  just  this  difference 
between  my  friends  and  yours,"  he  said,  at  last. 
'  Your  friends  are  doing  things.  They've  suc- 
ceeded. Mine  haven't,  yet  —  they're  only  try- 
ing" 

11  But  they  will  succeed,"  cried  Billy. 

"  Some  of  them,"  amended  the  man. 

"  Not  —  all  of  them?  "  Billy  looked  a  little 
troubled. 

Arkwright  shook  his  head  slowly. 

"  No.  They  couldn't  —  all  of  them,  you  know. 
Some  haven't  the  talent,  some  haven't  the  per- 
severance, and  some  haven't  the  money." 

"  But  all  that  seems  such  a  pity  —  when  they've 
tried,"  grieved  Billy. 

"It  is  a  pity,  Miss  Neilson.  Disappointed 
hopes  are  always  a  pity,  aren't  they?  " 

"Y-yes,"  sighed  the  girl.  "But  — if  there 
were  only  something  one  could  do  to  —  help!" 

Arkwright's  eyes  grew  deep  with  feeling,  but 
his  voice,  when  he  spoke,  was  purposely  light. 

"I'm  afraid  that  would  be  quite  too  big  a 
contract  for  even  your  generosity,  Miss  Neilson  — 
to  mend  all  the  broken  hopes  in  the  world,"  he 
prophesied. 

"  I  have  known  great  good  to  come  from  great 


M.  J.  Makes  Another  Move        167 

disappointments,"  remarked  Aunt  Hannah,  a 
bit  didactically. 

"  So  have  I,"  laughed  Arkwright,  still  deter- 
mined to  drive  the  troubled  shadow  from  the 
face  he  was  watching  so  intently.  "  For  instance: 
a  fellow  I  know  was  feeling  all  cut  up  last  Friday 
because  he  was  just  too  late  to  get  into  Symphony 
Hall  on  the  twenty-five-cent  admission.  Half 
an  hour  afterwards  his  disappointment  was  turned 
to  joy  —  a  friend  who  had  an  orchestra  chair 
couldn't  use  his  ticket  that  day,  and  so  handed 
it  over  to  him." 

Billy  turned  interestedly. 

''  What  are  those  twenty-five-cent  tickets  to 
the  Symphony?  " 

"  Then  —  you  don't  know?  " 

"  Not  exactly.  I've  heard  of  them,  in  a  vague 
fashion." 

:'  Then  you've  missed  one  of  the  sights  of  Boston 
if  you  haven't  ever  seen  that  long  line  of  patient 
waiters  at  the  door  of  Symphony  Hall  of  a  Friday 
morning." 

"  Morning!  But  the  concert  isn't  till  after- 
noon!" 

"  No,  but  the  waiting  is,"  retorted  Arkwright. 

'  You  see,   those  admissions  are  limited  —  five 

hundred  and  five,  I  believe  —  and  they're  rush 

seats,  at  that.    First  come,  first  served;    and  if 


168  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

you're  too  late  you  aren't  served  at  all.  So  the 
first  arrival  comes  bright  and  early.  I've  heard 
that  he  has  been  known  to  come  at  peep  of  day 
when  there's  a  Paderewski  or  a  Melba  for  a 
drawing  card.  But  I've  got  my  doubts  of  that. 
Anyhow,  I  never  saw  them  there  much  before 
half-past  eight.  But  many's  the  cold,  stormy 
day  I've  seen  those  steps  in  front  of  the  Hall 
packed  for  hours,  and  a  long  line  reaching  away 
up  the  avenue." 

Billy's  eyes  widened. 

"  And  they'll  stand  all  that  time  and  wait?  " 
"  To  be  sure  they  will.  You  see,  each  pays 
twenty-five  cents  at  the  door,  until  the  limit  is 
reached,  then  the  rest  are  turned  away.  Naturally 
they  don't  want  to  be  turned  away,  so  they  try 
to  get  there  early  enough  to  be  among  the  fortu- 
nate five  hundred  and  five.  Besides,  the  earlier 
you  are,  the  better  seat  you  are  likely  to  get." 
"  But  only  think  of  standing  all  that  time!  " 
"  Oh,  they  bring  camp  chairs,  sometimes,  I've 
heard,  and  then  there  are  the  steps.  You  don't 
know  what  a  really  fine  seat  a  stone  step  is  —  if 
you  have  a  big  enough  bundle  of  newspapers  to 
cushion  it  with !  They  bring  their  luncheons,  too, 
with  books,  papers,  and  knitting  work  for  fine 
days,  I've  been  told  —  some  of  them.  All  the 
comforts  of  home,  you  see,"  smiled  Arkwright. 


M.  J.  Makes  Another  Move        169 

"Why,  how  —  how  dreadful!"  stammered 
Billy. 

"  Oh,  but  they  don't  think  it's  dreadful  at 
all,"  corrected  Arkwright,  quickly.  "  For  twenty- 
five  cents  they  can  hear  all  that  you  hear  down 
in  your  orchestra  chair,  for  which  you've  paid  so 
high  a  premium." 

"But  who  —  who  are  they?  Where  do  they 
come  from?  Who  would  go  and  stand  hours  like 
that  to  get  a  twenty-five-cent  seat?  "  questioned 
Billy. 

"  Who  are  they?  Anybody,  everybody,  from 
anywhere,  everywhere;  people  who  have  the 
music  hunger  but  not  the  money  to  satisfy  it,'* 
he  rejoined.  "  Students,  teachers,  a  little  milliner 
from  South  Boston,  a  little  dressmaker  from  Chel- 
sea, a  housewife  from  Cambridge,  a  stranger  from 
the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth;  maybe  a  widow 
who  used  to  sit  down-stairs,  or  a  professor  who  has 
seen  better  days.  Really  to  know  that  line,  you 
should  see  it  for  yourself,  Miss  Neilson,"  smiled 
Arkwright,  as  he  reluctantly  rose  to  go.  "  Some 
Friday,  however,  before  you  take  your  seat,  just 
glance  up  at  that  packed  top  balcony  and  judge 
by  the  faces  you  see  there  whether  their  owners 
think  they're  getting  their  twenty-five-cents' 
worth,  or  not." 

"  I  will,"  nodded  Billy,  with  a  smile;   but  the 


170  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

smile  came  from  her  lips  only,  not  her  eyes: 
Billy  was  wishing,  at  that  moment,  that  she 
owned  the  whole  of  Symphony  Hall  —  to  give 
away.  But  that  was  like  Billy.  When  she  was 
seven  years  old  she  had  proposed  to  her  Aunt  Ella 
that  they  take  all  the  thirty-five  orphans  from  the 
Hampden  Falls  Orphan  Asylum  to  live  with  them, 
so  that  little  Sallie  Cook  and  the  other  orphans 
might  have  ice  cream  every  day,  if  they  wanted 
it.  Since  then  Billy  had  always  been  trying  —  in 
a  way  —  to  give  ice  cream  to  some  one  who 
wanted  it. 

Arkwright  was  almost  at  the  door  when  he 
turned  abruptly.  His  face  was  an  abashed  red. 
From  his  pocket  he  had  taken  a  small  folded 
paper. 

"  Do  you  suppose  —  in  this  —  you  might  find 
—  that  melody?  "  he  stammered  in  a  low  voice. 
The  next  moment  he  was  gone,  having  left  in 
Billy's  fingers  a  paper  upon  which  was  written 
in  a  clear-cut,  masculine  hand  six  four-line  stanzas. 

Billy  read  them  at  once,  hurriedly,  then  more 
i  carefully. 

"  Why,  they're  beautiful,"  she  breathed,  "  just 
'beautiful!  Where  did  he  get  them,  I  wonder? 
It's  a  love  song  —  and  such  a  pretty  one !  I  be- 
lieve there  is  a  melody  in  it,"  she  exulted,  pausing 
to  hum  a  line  or  two.  "  There  is  —  I  know  there 


M.  J.  Makes  Another  Move        171 

is;  and  I'll  write  it  —  for  Bertram,"  she  finished, 
crossing  joyously  to  the  piano. 

Half-way  down  Corey  Hill  at  that  moment, 
Arkwright  was  buffeting  the  wind  and  snow. 
He,  too,  was  thinking  joyously  of  those  stanzas  — 
joyously,  yet  at  the  same  time  fearfully.  Ark- 
wright himself  had  written  those  lines  —  though 
not  for  Bertram. 


CHAPTER  XV 

"  MR.  BILLY  "  AND  "  MISS  MARY  JANE  " 

ON  the  fourteenth  of  December  Billy  came 
down-stairs  alert,  interested,  and  happy.  She 
had  received  a  dear  letter  from  Bertram  (mailed 
on  the  way  to  New  York),  the  sun  was  shining, 
and  her  ringers  were  fairly  tingling  to  put  on  paper 
the  little  melody  that  was  now  surging  riotously 
through  her  brain.  Emphatically,  the  restlessness 
of  the  day  before  was  gone  now.  Once  more 
Billy's  "  clock  "  had  "  begun  to  tick." 

After  breakfast  Billy  went  straight  to  the 
telephone  and  called  up  Arkwright.  Even  one 
side  of  the  conversation  Aunt  Hannah  did  not 
hear  very  clearly;  but  in  five  minutes  a  radiant- 
faced  Billy  danced  into  the  room. 

"Aunt  Hannah,  just  listen!  Only  think  — 
Mary  Jane  wrote  the  words  himself,  so  of  course 
I  can  use  them!  " 

"  Billy,  dear,  can't  you  say  '  Mr.  Arkwright '?  " 
pleaded  Aunt  Hannah. 

Billy  laughed  and  gave  the  anxious-eyed  little 
old  lady  an  impulsive  hug. 

172 


11  Mr.  Billy  "and"  Miss  Mary  Jane  "    173 

"  Of  course!  I'll  say  '  His  Majesty  '  if  you  like, 
dear,"  she  chuckled.  "  But  did  you  hear  —  did 
you  realize?  They're  his  own  words,  so  there's 
no  question  of  rights  or  permission,  or  anything. 
And  he's  coming  up  this  afternoon  to  hear  my 
melody,  and  to  make  a  few  little  changes  in  the 
words,  maybe.  Oh,  Aunt  Hannah,  you  don't 
know  how  good  it  seems  to  get  into  my  music 
again!  " 

"Yes,  yes,  dear,  of  course;  but  — "  Aunt 
Hannah's  sentence  ended  in  a  vaguely  troubled 
pause. 

Billy  turned  in  surprise. 

"  Why,  Aunt  Hannah,  aren't  you  glad?  You 
-yaid  you'd  be  glad!  " 

"  Yes,  dear;  and  I  am  —  very  glad.  It's  only 
' —  if  it  doesn't  take  too  much  time  —  and  if 
Bertram  doesn't  mind." 

Billy  flushed.    She  laughed  a  little  bitterly. 

"  No,  it  won't  take  too  much  time,  I  fancy, 
and  —  so  far  as  Bertram  is  concerned  —  if  what 
Sister  Kate  says  is  true,  Aunt  Hannah,  he'll 
be  glad  to  have  me  occupy  a  little  of  my  time  with 
something  besides  himself." 

"  Fiddlededee! "  bristled  Aunt  Hannah. 
"What  did  she  mean  by  that?" 

Billy  smiled  ruefully. 

"  Well,  probably  I  did  need  it.     She  said  it 


174  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

night  before  last  just  before  she  went  home  with" 
Uncle  William.  She  declared  that  I  seemed  to 
forget  entirely  that  Bertram  belonged  to  his  Art'' 
first,  before  he  belonged  to  me;  and  that  it  was 
exactly  as  she  had  supposed  it  would  be  —  a 
perfect  absurdity  for  Bertram  to  think  of  marrying 
anybody." 

"  Fiddlededee! "  ejaculated  the  irate  Aunt 
Hannah,  even  more  sharply.  "  I  hope  you  have 
too  much  good  sense  to  mind  what  Kate  says, 
Billy." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  sighed  the  girl;  "  but  of  course 
I  can  see  some  things  for  myself,  and  I  suppose 
I  did  make  —  a  little  fuss  about  his  going  to 
New  York  the  other  night.  And  I  will  own  that 
I've  had  a  real  struggle  with  myself  sometimes, 
lately,  not  to  mind  —  his  giving  so  much  time 
to  his  portrait  painting.  And  of  course  both  of 
those  are  very  reprehensible  —  in  an  artist's  wife," 
she  finished,  a  little  tremulously. 

"  Humph!  Well,  I  don't  think  I  should  worry 
about  that,"  observed  Aunt  Hannah  with  grim 
positiveness. 

"  No,  I  don't  mean  to,"  smiled  Billy,  wistfully. 
*'  I  only  told  you  so  you'd  understand  that  it 
was  just  as  well  if  I  did  have  something  to  take 
up  my  mind  —  besides  Bertram.  And  of  course 
music  would  be  the  most  natural  thing." 


"  Mr.  Billy  "  and  "  Miss  Mary  Jane  "    175 

"  Yes,  of  course,"  agreed  Aunt  Hannah. 

"  And  it  seems  actually  almost  providential 
that  Mary  —  I  mean  Mr.  Arkwright  is  here  to 
help  me,  now  that  Cyril  is  gone,"  went  on  Billy, 
still  a  little  wistfully. 

"  Yes,  of  course.  He  isn't  like  —  a  stranger," 
murmured  Aunt  Hannah.  Aunt  Hannah's  voice 
sounded  as  if  she  were  trying  to  convince  herself 
—  of  something. 

II  No,  indeed!     He  seems  just  like  one  of  the 
family  to  me,  almost  as  if  he  were  really  —  your 
niece,  Mary  Jane,"  laughed  Billy.  ^ 

Aunt  Hannah  moved  restlessly. 

"  Billy,"  she  hazarded,  "  he  knows,  of  course, 
of  your  engagement?  " 

"  Why,  of  course  he  does,  Aunt  Hannah  — 
everybody  does!  "  Billy's  eyes  were  plainly  sur- 
prised. 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course  —  he  must,"  subsided 
Aunt  Hannah,  confusedly,  hoping  that  Billy 
would  not  divine  the  hidden  reason  behind  her 
question.  She  was  relieved  when  Billy's  next 
words  showed  that  she  had  not  divined  it. 

II 1  told  you,  didn't  I?     He's  coming  up  this 
afternoon.     He  can't  get  here  till  five,  though; 
but  he's  so  interested!    He's  about  as  crazy  over 
the  thing  as  I  am.    And  it's  going  to  be  fine,  Aunt 
Hannah,  when  it's  done.    You  just  wait  and  see!  '* 


176  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

she  finished  gayly,  as  she  tripped  from  the 
room. 

Left  to  herself,  Aunt  Hannah  drew  a  long 
breath. 

"  I'm  glad  she  didn't  suspect,"  she  was  think- 
ing. "  I  believe  she'd  consider  even  the  question 
disloyal  to  Bertram  —  dear  child!  And  of  course 
Mary"  —  Aunt  Hannah  corrected  herself  with 
cheeks  aflame  —  "I  mean  Mr.  Arkwright  does 
—  know." 

It  was  just  here,  however,  that  Aunt  Hannah 
was  mistaken.  Mr.  Arkwright  did  not  —  know. 
He  had  not  reached  Boston  when  the  engagement 
was  announced.  He  knew  none  of  Billy's  friends 
in  town  save  the  Henshaw  brothers.  He  had 
not  heard  from  Calderwell  since  he  came  to  Boston. 
The  very  evident  intimacy  of  Billy  with  the 
Henshaw  brothers  he  accepted  as  a  matter  of 
course,  knowing  the  history  of  their  acquaintance, 
and  the  fact  that  Billy  was  Mr.  William  Henshaw's 
namesake.  As  to  Bertram  being  Billy's  lover  — 
that  idea  had  long  ago  been  killed  at  birth  by 
Calderwell's  emphatic  assertion  that  the  artist 
would  never  care  for  any  girl  —  except  to  paint. 
Since  coming  to  Boston,  Arkwright  had  seen 
little  of  the  two  together.  His  work,  his  friends, 
and  his  general  mode  of  life  precluded  that.  Be- 
cause of  all  this,  therefore,  Arkwright  did  not  — 


"  Mr.  Billy  "  and  "  Miss  Mary  Jane  "  177 

know;  which  was  a  pity  —  for  Arkwright,  and 
for  some  others. 

Promptly  at  five  o'clock  that  afternoon,  Ark- 
wright rang  Billy's  doorbell,  and  was  admitted 
by  Rosa  to  the  living-room,  where  Billy  was  at 
the  piano. 

Billy  sprang  to  her  feet  with  a  joyous  word  of 
greeting. 

"  I'm  so  glad  you've  come,"  she  sighed  happily. 
"  I  want  you  to  hear  the  melody  your  pretty 
words  have  sung  to  me.  Though,  maybe,  after 
all,  you  won't  like  it,  you  know,"  she  finished 
with  arch  wistfulness. 

"  As  if  I  could  help  liking  it,"  smiled  the  man, 
trying  to  keep  from  his  voice  the  ecstatic  de- 
light that  the  touch  of  her  hand  had  brought 
him. 

Billy  shook  her  head  and  seated  herself  again 
at  the  piano. 

'  The  words  are  lovely,"  she  declared,  sorting 
out  two  or  three  sheets  of  manuscript  music  from 
the  quantity  on  the  rack  before  her.  "  But  there's 
one  place  —  the  rhythm,  you  know  —  if  you  could 
change  it.  There!  —  but  listen.  First  I'm  going 
to  play  it  straight  through  to  you."  And  she 
dropped  her  fingers  to  the  keyboard.  The  next 
moment  a  tenderly  sweet  melody  —  with  only  a 
chord  now  and  then  for  accompaniment  —  filled 


178  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

Arkwright's  soul  with  rapture.    Then  Billy  began 
to  sing,  very  softly,  the  words.  ] 

No  wonder  Arkwright's  soul  was  filled  with 
rapture.  They  were  his  words,  wrung  straight 
from  his  heart;  and  they  were  being  sung  by/ 
the  girl  for  whom  they  were  written.  They 
were  being  sung  with  feeling,  too  —  so  evident 
a  feeling  that  the  man's  pulse  quickened,  and  his 
eyes  flashed  a  sudden  fire.  Arkwright  could  not 
know,  of  course,  that  Billy,  in  her  own  mind,  was 
singing  that  song  —  to  Bertram  Henshaw. 

The  fire  was  still  in  Arkwright's  eyes  when  the 
song  was  ended;  but  Billy  very  plainly  did  not 
see  it.  With  a  frowning  sigh  and  a  murmured 
"  There!  "  she  began  to  talk  of  "  rhythm  "  and 
"accent"  and  "cadence";  and  to  point  out 
with  anxious  care  why  three  syllables  instead  of 
two  were  needed  at  the  end  of  a  certain  line. 
From  this  she  passed  eagerly  to  the  accompani- 
ment, and  Arkwright  at  once  found  himself  lost 
in  a  maze  of  "  minor  thirds  "  and  "  diminished 
sevenths,"  until  he  was  forced  to  turn  from  the 
singer  to  the  song.  Still,  watching  her  a  little 
later,  he  noticed  her  absorbed  face  and  eager 
enthusiasm,  her  earnest  pursuance  of  an  elusive 
harmony,  and  he  wondered:  did  she,  or  did  she 
not  sing  that  song  with  feeling  a  little  while  before? 

Arkwright  had  not  settled  this  question  to  his 


"  Mr.  Billy  "  and  "  Miss  Mary  Jane  "  179 

own  satisfaction  when  Aunt  Hannah  came  in 
at  half -past  five,  and  he  was  conscious  of  a  vague 
disappointment  as  he  rose  to  greet  her.  Billy, 
however,  turned  an  untroubled  face  to  the  new- 
comer. 

"  We're  doing  finely,  Aunt  Hannah,"  she  cried. 
Then,  suddenly,  she  flung  a  laughing  question 
to  the  man.  "  How  about  it,  sir?  Are  we  going 
to  put  on  the  title-page:  '  Words  by  Mary  Jane 
Arkwright '  —  or  will  you  unveil  the  mystery 
for  us  now?  " 

"  Have  you  guessed  it?  "  he  bantered. 

"No  —  unless  it's  '  Methuselah  John.'  We 
did  think  of  that  the  other  day." 

"  Wrong  again!  "  he  laughed. 

"  Then  it'll  have  to  be  '  Mary  Jane,'  "  retorted 
Billy,  with  calm  naughtiness,  refusing  to  meet 
Aunt  Hannah's  beseechingly  reproving  eyes. 
Then  suddenly  she  chuckled.  "  It  would  be  a 
combination,  wouldn't  it?  '  Words  by  Mary 
Jane  Arkwright.  Music  by  Billy  Neilson'! 
We'd  have  sighing  swains  writing  to  '  Dear  Miss 
Arkwright,'  telling  how  touching  were  her  words; 
and  lovelorn  damsels  thanking  Mr.  Neilson  for 
his  soul-inspiring  music!  " 

"  Billy,  my  dear!  "  remonstrated  Aunt  Hannah, 
faintly. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know;    that  was  bad  —  and  I, 


180  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

won't  again,  truly,"  promised  Billy.  But  her 
eyes  danced,  and  the  next  moment  she  had  whirled 
about  on  the  piano  stool  and  dashed  into  a  Chopin 
waltz.  The  room  itself,  then,  seemed  to  be  full 
of  the  twinkling  feet  of  elves. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

A  GIRL  AND  A  BIT  OF  LOWESTOFT 

IMMEDIATELY  after  breakfast  the  next  morning, 
Billy  was  summoned  to  the  telephone. 

"  Oh,  good  morning,  Uncle  William,"  she  called, 
in  answer  to  the  masculine  voice  that  replied  to 
her  "  Hullo." 

"  Billy,  are  you  very  busy  this  morning?  " 

"  No,  indeed  • —  not  if  you  want  me." 

"Well,  I  do,  my  dear."  Uncle  William's 
voice  was  troubled.  "  I  want  you  to  go  with  me, 
if  you  can,  to  see  a  Mrs.  Greggory.  She's  got  a 
teapot  I  want.  It's  a  genuine  Lowestoft,  Harlow 
says.  Will  you  go?  " 

"Of  course  I  will!   What  time?  " 

"  Eleven  if  you  can,  at  Park  Street.  She's 
at  the  West  End.  I  don't  dare  to  put  it  off  for 
fear  I'll  lose  it.  Harlow  says  others  will  have  to 
know  of  it,  of  course.  You  see,  she's  just  made  up 
her  mind  to  sell  it,  and  asked  him  to  find  a  cus- 
tomer. I  wouldn't  trouble  you,  but  he  says 
they're  peculiar  —  the  daughter,  especially  —  and 

181 


182  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

may  need  some  careful  handling.  That's  why  I 
wanted  you  —  though  I  wanted  you  to  see  the  tea- 
pot, too,  —  it'll  be  yours  some  day,  you  know." 

Billy,  all  alone  at  her  end  of  the  line,  blushed. 
That  she  was  one  day  to  be  mistress  of  the  Strata 
and  all  it  contained  was  still  anything  but  "  com- 
mon "  to  her. 

"  I'd  love  to  see  it,  and  I'll  come  gladly;  but 
I'm  afraid  I  won't  be  much  help,  Uncle  William," 
she  worried. 

"  I'll  take  the  risk  of  that.  You  see,  Harlow 
says  that  about  half  the  time  she  isn't  sure  she 
wants  to  sell  it,  after  all." 

"Why,  how  funny!  Well,  I'll  come.  At 
eleven,  you  say,  at  Park  Street?  " 

"Yes;  and  thank  you,  my  dear.  I  tried  to 
get  Kate  to  go,  too;  but  she  wouldn't.  By  the 
way,  I'm  going  to  bring  you  home  to  luncheon. 
Kate  leaves  this  afternoon,  you  know,  and  it's 
been  so  snowy  she  hasn't  thought  best  to  try  to 
get  over  to  the  house.  Maybe  Aunt  Hannah  would 
come,  too,  for  luncheon.  Would  she?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  not,"  returned  Billy,  with  a  rueful 
laugh.  "  She's  got  three  shawls  on  this  morning, 
and  you  know  that  always  means  that  she's 
felt  a  draft  somewhere  —  poor  dear.  I'll  tell  her, 
though,  and  I'll  see  you  at  eleven,"  finished  Billy, 
as  she  hung  up  the  receiver. 


A  Girl  and  a  Bit  of  Lowestoft     183 

Promptly  at  the  appointed  time  Billy  met  Uncle 
William  at  Park  Street,  and  together  they  set 
out  for  the  West  End  street  named  on  the  paper 
in  his  pocket.  But  when  the  shabby  house  on 
the  narrow  little  street  was  reached,  the  man  looked 
about  him  with  a  troubled  frown. 

"  I  declare,  Billy,  I'm  not  sure  but  we'd  better 
turn  back,"  he  fretted.  "  I  didn't  mean  to  take 
you  to  such  a  place  as  this." 

Billy  shivered  a  little;  but  after  one  glance  at 
the  man's  disappointed  face  she  lifted  a  deter- 
mined chin. 

"  Nonsense,  Uncle  William!  Of  course  you 
won't  turn  back.  I  don't  mind  —  for  myself; 
but  only  think  of  the  people  whose  homes  are 
here,"  she  finished,  just  above  her  breath. 

Mrs.  Greggory  was  found  to  be  living  in  two 
back  rooms  at  the  top  of  four  flights  of  stairs, 
up  which  William  Henshaw  toiled  with  increasing 
weariness  and  dismay,  punctuating  each  flight 
with  a  despairing:  "  Billy,  really,  I  think  we 
should  turn  back!  " 

But  Billy  would  not  turn  back,  and  at  last 
they  found  themselves  in  the  presence  of  a  white- 
haired,  sweet-faced  woman  who  said  yes,  she 
was  Mrs.  Greggory;  yes,  she  was.  Even  as  she 
uttered  the  words,  however,  she  looked  fearfully 
over  her  shoulders  as  if  expecting  to  hear  from 


184  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

the  hall  behind  them  a  voice  denying  her  asser- 
tion. 

Mrs.  Greggory  was  a  cripple.  Her  slender 
little  body  was  poised  on  two  once-costly  crutches. 
Both  the  worn  places  on  the  crutches,  and  the 
skill  with  which  the  little  woman  swung  herself 
about  the  room  testified  that  the  crippled  con- 
dition was  not  a  new  one. 

Billy's  eyes  were  brimming  with  pity  and  dis- 
may. Mechanically  she  had  taken  the  chair 
toward  which  Mrs.  Greggory  had  motioned  her. 
She  had  tried  not  to  seem  to  look  about  her;  but 
there  was  not  one  detail  of  the  bare  little  room, 
from  its  faded  rug  to  the  patched  but  spotless 
tablecloth,  that  was  not  stamped  on  her  brain. 

Mrs.  Greggory  had  seated  herself  now,  and 
William  Henshaw  had  cleared  his  throat  nervously. 
Billy  did  not  know  whether  she  herself  were  the 
more  distressed  or  the  more  relieved  to  hear  him 
stammer: 

"  We  —  er  —  I  came  from  Harlow,  Mrs.  Greg- 
gory.  He  gave  me  to  understand  you  had  an  — 
er  —  teapot  that  —  er — "  With  his  eyes  on 
the  cracked  white  crockery  pitcher  on  the  table, 
William  Henshaw  came  to  a  helpless  pause. 

A  curious  expression,  or  rather,  series  of  ex- 
pressions crossed  Mrs.  Greggory's  face.  Terror, 
joy,  dismay,  and  relief  seemed,  one  after  the  othen 


A  Girl  and  a  Bit  of  Lowestoft     185 

to  fight  for  supremacy.  Relief  in  the  end  con- 
quered, though  even  yet  there  was  a  second 
hurriedly  apprehensive  glance  toward  the  door 
before  she  spoke. 

"The  Lowestoft!     Yes,   I'm  so  glad!  — that' 
is,  of  course  I  must  be  glad.     I'll  get  it."     Her 
voice  broke  as  she  pulled  herself  from  her  chair. 
There  was  only  despairing  sorrow  on  her  face 
now. 

The  man  rose  at  once. 

"  But,  madam,  perhaps  —  don't  let  me  —  " 
he  began  stammeringly.  "Of  course  —  Billy!" 
he  broke  off  in  an  entirely  different  voice.  "  Jove! 
What  a  beauty!" 

Mrs.  Greggory  had  thrown  open  the  door  of 
a  small  cupboard  near  the  collector's  chair,  dis- 
closing on  one  of  the  shelves  a  beautifully  shaped 
teapot,  creamy  in  tint,  and  exquisitely  decorated 
in  a  rose  design.  Near  it  set  a  tray-like  plate  of 
the  same  ware  and  decoration. 

"  If  you'll  lift  it  down,  please,  yourself,"  mo- 
tioned Mrs.  Greggory.  "  I  don't  like  to  —  with 
these,"  she  explained,  tapping  the  crutches  at 
her  side. 

With  fingers  that  were  almost  reverent  in  their 
appreciation,  the  collector  reached  for  the  teapot. 
His  eyes  sparkled. 

"  Billy,  look,  what  a  beauty!    And  it's  a  Lowes- 


186  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

toft,  too,  the  real  thing  —  the  genuine,  true  soft 
paste!  And  there's  the  tray  —  did  you  notice?  " 
he  exulted,  turning  back  to  the  shelf.  "  You 
don't  see  that  every  day!  They  get  separated, 
most  generally,  you  know." 

"  These  pieces  have  been  in  our  family  for 
generations,"  said  Mrs.  Greggory  with  an  accent 
of  pride.  "  You'll  find  them  quite  perfect,  I 
think." 

"  Perfect!  I  should  say  they  were,"  cried  the 
man. 

"They  are,  then  —  valuable?"  Mrs.  Greg- 
gory's  voice  shook. 

"  Indeed  they  are!    But  you  must  know  that." 

"  I  have  been  told  so.  Yet  to  me  their  chief 
value,  of  course,  lies  in  their  association.  My 
mother  and  my  grandmother  owned  that  teapot, 
sir."  Again  her  voice  broke. 

William  Henshaw  cleared  his  throat. 

"  But,  madam,  if  you  do  not  wish  to  sell  - 
He  stopped  abruptly.    His  longing  eyes  had  gone 
back  to  the  enticing  bit  of  china. 

Mrs.  Greggory  gave  a  low  cry. 

11  But  I  do  —  that  is,  I  must.  Mr.  Harlow 
says  that  it  is  valuable,  and  that  it  will  bring 
in  money;  and  we  need  —  money."  She  threw 
a  quick  glance  toward  the  hall  door,  though  she 
did  not  pause  in  her  remarks.  "I  can't  do  much 


A  Girl  and  a  Bit  of  Lowestoft     187 

-at  work  that  pays.  I  sew  — "  she  nodded 
toward  the  machine  by  the  window  —  "  but  with 
only  one  foot  to  make  it  go —  You  see,  the 
other  is  —  is  inclined  to  shirk  a  little,"  she  finished 
with  a  wistful  whimsicality. 

Billy  turned  away  sharply.  There  was  a  lump 
in  her  throat  and  a  smart  in  her  eyes.  She  was 
conscious  suddenly  of  a  fierce  anger  against  — 
she  did  not  know  what,  exactly;  but  she  fancied 
it  was  against  the  teapot,  or  against  Uncle  Will- 
iam for  wanting  the  teapot,  or  for  not  wanting 
it  —  if  he  did  not  buy  it. 

"  And  so  you  see,  I  do  very  much  wish  to  sell," 
Mrs.  Greggory  said  then.  "  Perhaps  you  will 
tell  me  what  it  would  be  worth  to  you,"  she  con- 
cluded tremulously. 

The  collector's  eyes  glowed.  He  picked  up 
the  teapot  with  careful  rapture  and  examined 
it.  Then  he  turned  to  the  tray.  After  a  moment 
he  spoke. 

"  I  have  only  one  other  in  my  collection  as 
rare,"  he  said.  "  I  paid  a  hundred  dollars  for 
that.  I  shall  be  glad  to  give  you  the  same  for 
this,  madam." 

Mrs.  Greggory  started  visibly. 

"  A  hundred  dollars?  So  much  as  that?  "  she 
cried  almost  joyously.  "  Why,  nothing  else  that 
we've  had  has  brought  —  Of  course,  if  it's  worth 


188  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

that  to  you  —  She  paused  suddenly.  A  quick 
step  had  sounded  in  the  hall  outside.  The  next 
moment  the  door  flew  open  and  a  young  woman, 
who  looked  to  be  about  twenty-three  or  twenty- 
four  years  old,  burst  into  the  room. 

"  Mother,  only  think,  I've  -  She  stopped, 
and  drew  back  a  little.  Her  startled  eyes  went 
from  one  face  to  another,  then  dropped  to 
the  Lowestoft  teapot  in  the  man's  hands.  Her 
expression  changed  at  once.  She  shut  the  door 
quickly  and  hurried  forward. 

"  Mother,  what  is  it?  Who  are  these  people?  " 
she  asked  sharply. 

Billy  lifted  her  chin  the  least  bit.  She  was  con- 
scious of  a  feeling  which  she  could  not  name: 
Billy  was  not  used  to  being  called  "  these  people  " 
in  precisely  that  tone  of  voice.  William  Henshaw, 
too,  raised  his  chin.  He,  also,  was  not  in  the  habit 
of  being  referred  to  as  "  these  people." 

"My  name  is  Henshaw,  Miss  —  Greggory,  I 
presume,"  he  said  quietly.  "  I  was  sent  here  by 
Mr.  Harlow." 

"  About  the  teapot,  my  dear,  you  know," 
stammered  Mrs.  Greggory,  wetting  her  lips  with 
an  air  of  hurried  apology  and  conciliation.  '  This 
gentleman  says  he  will  be  glad  to  buy  it.  Er  — 
my  daughter,  Alice,  Mr.  Henshaw,"  she  hastened 
on,  in  embarrassed  introduction;  "  and  Miss  —  " 


A  Girl  and  a  Bit  of  Lowestoft  ••  189 

11  Neilson,"  supplied  the  man,  as  she  looked  at 
Billy,  and  hesitated. 

A  swift  red  stained  Alice  Greggory's  face.  With 
barely  an  acknowledgment  of  the  introductions 
she  turned  to  her  mother. 

'  Yes,  dear,  but  that  won't  be  necessary  now. 
As  I  started  to  tell  you  when  I  came  in,  I  have  two 
new  pupils;  and  so  "  -  turning  to  the  man  again 
"  I  thank  you  for  your  offer,  but  we  have  decided 
not  to  sell  the  teapot  at  present."  As  she  finished 
her  sentence  she  stepped  one  side  as  if  to  make 
room  for  the  strangers  to  reach  the  door. 

William  Henshaw  frowned  angrily  —  that  was 
the  man;  but  his  eyes  —  the  collector's  eyes  — 
sought  the  teapot  longingly.  Before  either  the 
man  or  the  collector  could  speak,  however,,  Mrs. 
Greggory  interposed  quick  words  of  remon- 
strance. 

"  But,  Alice,  my  dear,"  she  almost  sobbed. 
"  You  didn't  wait  to  let  me  tell  you.  Mr.  Hen- 
shaw says  it  is  worth  a  hundred  dollars  to  him. 
He  will  give  us  —  a  hundred  dollars." 

"  A  hundred  dollars!  "  echoed  the  girl,  faintly. 

It  was  plain  to  be  seen  that  she  was  wavering. 
Billy,  watching  the  little  scene,  with  mingled 
emotions,  saw  the  glance  with  which  the  girl 
swept  the  bare  little  room;  and  she  knew  that 
there  was  not  a  patch  or  darn  or  poverty  spot  in 


190  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

sight,  or  out  of  sight,  which  that  glance  did  not 
encompass. 

Billy  was  wondering  which  she  herself  desired 
more  —  that  Uncle  William  should  buy  the  Lowes- 
toft,  or  that  he  should  not.  She  knew  she  wished 
Mrs.  Greggory  to  have  the  hundred  dollars. 
There  was  no  doubt  on  that  point.  Then  Uncle 
William  spoke.  His  words  carried  the  righteous 
indignation  of  the  man  who  thinks  he  has  been 
unjustly  treated,  and  the  final  plea  of  the  collector 
who  sees  a  coveted  treasure  slipping  from  his  grasp. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  of  course,  if  my  offer  has 
annoyed  you,"  he  said  stiffly.  "  I  certainly 
should  not  have  made  it  had  I  not  had  Mrs. 
Greggory's  assurance  that  she  wished  to  sell  the 
teapot." 

Alice  Greggory  turned  as  if  stung. 

"  Wished  to  sett! "  She  repeated  the  words 
with  superb  disdain.  She  was  plainly  very  angry. 
Her  blue-gray  eyes  gleamed  with  scorn,  and  her 
whole  face  was  suffused  with  a  red  that  had  swept 
to  the  roots  of  her  soft  hair.  "  Do  you  think  a 
woman  wishes  to  sell  a  thing  that  she's  treasured 
all  her  life,  a  thing  that  is  perhaps  the  last  visible 
reminder  of  the  days  when  she  was  living  —  not 
merely  existing?  " 

"  Alice,  Alice,  my  love!  "  protested  the  sweet- 
faced  cripple,  agitatedly. 


A  Girl  and  a  Bit  of  Lowestoft     191 

"  I  can't  help  it,"  stormed  the  girl,  hotly.  "  I 
know  how  much  you  think  of  that  teapot  that 
was  grandmother's.  I  know  what  it  cost  you  to 
make  up  your  mind  to  sell  it  at  all.  And  then  to 
hear  these  people  talk  about  your  wishing  to 
sell  it!  Perhaps  they  think,  too,  we  wish  to  live 
in  a  place  like  this;  that  we  wish  to  have  rugs 
that  are  darned,  and  chairs  that  are  broken,  and 
garments  that  are  patches  instead  of  clothes!  " 

"Alice!"  gasped  Mrs.  Greggory  in  dismayed 
horror. 

With  a  little  outward  fling  of  her  two  hands 
Alice  Greggory  stepped  back.  Her  face  had  grown 
white  again. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  of  course,"  she  said  in  a 
voice  that  was  bitterly  quiet.  "  I  should  not 
have  spoken  so.  You  are  very  kind,  Mr.  Henshaw, 
but  I  do  not  think  we  care  to  sell  the  Lowestoft 
to-day." 

Both  words  and  manner  were  obviously  a  dis- 
missal ;  and  with  a  puzzled  sigh  William  Henshaw 
picked  up  his  hat.  His  face  showed  very  clearly 
that  he  did  not  know  what  to  do,  or  what  to  say ; 
but  it  showed,  too,  as  clearly,  that  he  longed  to 
do  something,  or  say  something.  During  the 
brief  minute  that  he  hesitated,  however,  Billy 
sprang  forward. 

"  Mrs.  Greggory,  please,  won't  you  let  me  buy 


192  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

the  teapot?  And  then  —  won't  you  keep  it  for 
me  —  here?  I  haven't  the  hundred  dollars  with 
me,  but  I'll  send  it  right  away.  You  will  let  me 
do  it,  won't  you?  " 

It  was  an  impulsive  speech,  and  a  foolish  one, 
of  course,  from  the  standpoint  of  sense  and  logic 
and  reasonableness ;  but  it  was  one  that  might  be 
expected,  perhaps,  from  Billy. 

Mrs.  Greggory  must  have  divined,  in  a  way, 
the  spirit  that  prompted  it,  for  her  eyes  grew  wet, 
and  with  a  choking  "  Dear  child!  "  she  reached 
out  and  caught  Billy's  hand  in  both  her  own  — 
even  while  she  shook  her  head  in  denial. 

Not  so  her  daughter.  Alice  Greggory  flushed 
scarlet.  She  drew  herself  proudly  erect. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said  with  crisp  coldness; 
"  but,  distasteful  as  darns  and  patches  are  to  us, 
we  prefer  them,  infinitely,  to  —  charity!" 

"  Oh,  but,  please,  I  didn't  mean  —  you  didn't 
understand,"  faltered  Billy. 

For  answer  Alice  Greggory  walked  deliberately 
to  the  door  and  held  it  open. 

"  Oh,  Alice,  my  dear,"  pleaded  Mrs.  Greggory 
again,  feebly. 

"  Come,  Billy!  We'll  bid  you  good  morning, 
ladies,"  said  William  Henshaw  then,  decisively. 
And  Billy,  with  a  little  wistful  pat  on  Mrs.  Greg- 
gory's  clasped  hands,  went. 


A  Girl  and  a  Bit  of  Lowestoft     193 

Once  down  the  long  four  flights  of  stairs  and 
out  on  the  sidewalk,  William  Henshaw  drew  a  long 
breath. 

"Well,  by  Jove!  Billy,  the  next  time  I  take 
you  curio  hunting,  it  won't  be  to  this  place,"  he 
fumed. 

"  Wasn't  it  awful!  "  choked  Billy. 

"  Awful!  The  girl  was  the  most  stubborn,  un- 
reasonable, vixenish  little  puss  I  ever  saw.  I 
didn't  want  her  old  Lowestoft  if  she  didn't  want 
to  sell  it!  But  to  practically  invite  me  there,  and 
then  treat  me  like  that!  "  scolded  the  collector,  his 
face  growing  red  with  anger.  "  Still,  I  was  sorry 
for  the  poor  little  old  lady.  I  wish,  somehow,  she 
could  have  that  hundred  dollars! "  It  was  the 
man  who  said  this,  not  the  collector. 

"So  do  I,"  rejoined  Billy,  dolefully.  "But 
that  girl  was  so  —  so  queer!  "  she  sighed,  with  a 
frown.  Billy  was  puzzled.  For  the  first  time, 
perhaps,  in  her  life,  she  knew  what  it  was  to  have 
her  proffered  "  ice  cream  "  disdainfully  refused. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

ONLY  A  LOVE  SONG,  BUT  — 

KATE  and  little  Kate  left  for  the  West  on  the 
afternoon  of  the  fifteenth,  and  Bertram  arrived 
from  New  York  that  evening.  Notwithstanding 
the  confusion  of  all  this,  Billy  still  had  time  to 
give  some  thought  to  her  experience  of  the  morning 
with  Uncle  William.  The  forlorn  little  room  with 
its  poverty-stricken  furnishings  and  its  crippled 
mistress  was  very  vivid  in  Billy's  memory. 
Equally  vivid  were  the  flashing  eyes  of  Alice 
Greggory  as  she  had  opened  the  door  at  the  last. 

"  For,"  as  Billy  explained  to  Bertram  that 
evening,  after  she  had  told  him  the  story  of  the 
morning's  adventure,  "  you  see,  dear,  I  had  never 
been  really  turned  out  of  a  house  before!  " 

"  I  should  think  not,"  scowled  her  lover,  in- 
dignantly; "  and  it's  safe  to  say  you  never  will 
again.  The  impertinence  of  it!  But  then,  you 
won't  see  them  any  more,  sweetheart,  so  we'll 

just  forget  it." 

194 


Only  a  Love  Song,  But —         195 

"  Forget  it!  Why,  Bertram,  I  couldn't!  You 
couldn't,  if  you'd  been  there.  Besides,  of  course 
I  shall  see  them  again!  " 

Bertram's  jaw  dropped. 

"Why,  Billy,  you  don't  mean  that  Will,  or 
you  either,  would  try  again  for  that  trumpery 
teapot!" 

"  Of  course  not,"  flashed  Billy,  heatedly.  "  It 
isn't  the  teapot  —  it's  that  dear  little  Mrs.  Greg- 
gory.  Why,  dearie,  you  don't  know  how  poor 
they  are!  Everything  in  sight  is  so  old  and  thin 
and  worn  it's  enough  to  break  your  heart.  The 
rug  isn't  anything  but  darns,  nor  the  tablecloth, 
either  —  except  patches.  It's  awful,  Bertram!" 

"  I  know,  darling;  but  you  don't  expect  to  buy 
them  new  rugs  and  new  tablecloths,  do  you?  " 

Billy  gave  one  of  her  unexpected  laughs. 

"  Mercy!  "  she  chuckled.  "  Only  picture  Miss 
Alice's  face  if  I  should  try  to  buy  them  rugs  and 
tablecloths !  No,  dear,"  she  went  on  more  seriously, 
"  I  sha'n't  do  that,  of  course  —  though  I'd  like 
to;  but  I  shall  try  to  see  Mrs.  Greggory  again, 
if  it's  nothing  more  than  a  rose  or  a  book  or  a  new 
magazine  that  I  can  take  to  her." 

"  Or  a  smile  —  which  I  fancy  will  be  the  best 
gift  of  the  lot,"  amended  Bertram,  fondly. 

Billy  dimpled  and  shook  her  head. 

"  Smiles  —  my  smiles  —  are  not  so  valuable, 


196  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

I'm  afraid  —  except  to  you,  perhaps,"  she 
laughed. 

"  Self-evident  facts  need  no  proving,"  retorted 
Bertram.  "  Well,  and  what  else  has  happened 
in  all  these  ages  I've  been  away?  " 

Billy  brought  her  hands  together  with  a  sudden 
cry. 

"  Oh,  and  I  haven't  told  you!  "  she  exclaimed. 
"  I'm  writing  a  new  song  —  a  love  song.  Mary 
Jane  wrote  the  words.  They're  beautiful." 

Bertram  stiffened. 

"Indeed!  And  is  —  Mary  Jane  a  poet,  with 
all  the  rest? "  he  asked,  with  affected  light- 
ness. 

"  Oh,  no,  of  course  not,"  smiled  Billy;  "  but 
these  words  are  pretty.  And  they  just  sang  them- 
selves into  the  dearest  little  melody  right  away. 
So  I'm  writing  the  music  for  them." 

"  Lucky  Mary  Jane! "  murmured  Bertram, 
still  with  a  lightness  that  he  hoped  would  pass 
for  indifference.  (Bertram  was  ashamed  of  him- 
self, but  deep  within  him  was  a  growing  conscious- 
ness that  he  knew  the  meaning  of  the  vague  irrita- 
tion that  he  always  felt  at  the  mere  mention  of 
Arkwright's  name.)  "  And  will  the  title-page 
say,  '  Words  by  Mary  Jane  Arkwright '?  "  he 
finished. 

"That's  what  I  asked  him,"   laughed  Billy. 


Only  a  Love  Song,  But-          197 

"  I  even  suggested  '  Methuselah  John '  for  a 
change.  Oh,  but,  dearie,"  she  broke  off  with  shy 
eagerness,  "  I  just  want  you  to  hear  a  little  of 
what  I've  done  with  it.  You  see,  really,  all  the 
time,  I  suspect,  I've  been  singing  it  —  to  you," 
she  confessed  with  an  endearing  blush,  as  she 
sprang  lightly  to  her  feet  and  hurried  to  the 
piano. 

It  was  a  bad  ten  minutes  that  Bertram  Henshaw 
spent  then.  How  he  could  love  a  song  and  hate 
it  at  the  same  time  he  did  not  understand;  but 
he  knew  that  he  was  doing  exactly  that.  To  hear 
Billy  carol  "  Sweetheart,  my  sweetheart!  "  with 
that  joyous  tenderness  was  bliss  unspeakable  — 
until  he  remembered  that  Arkwright  wrote  the 
"Sweetheart,  my  sweetheart!"  then  it  was  — 
(Even  in  his  thoughts  Bertram  bit  the  word  off 
short.  He  was  not  a  swearing  man.)  When  he 
looked  at  Billy  now  at  the  piano,  and  thought  of 
her  singing  —  as  she  said  she  had  sung  —  that 
song  to  him  all  through  the  last  three  days,  his 
heart  glowed.  But  wrhen  he  looked  at  her  and 
thought  of  Arkwright,  who  had  made  possible 
that  singing,  his  heart  froze  with  terror. 

From  the  very  first  it  had  been  music  that 
Bertram  had  feared.  He  could  not  forget  that 
Billy  herself  had  once  told  him  that  never  would 
she  love  any  man  better  than  she  loved  her  music ; 


198  Miss  Billy's  Decision 


that  she  was  not  going  to  marry.  All  this  had 
been  at  the  first  —  the  very  first.  He  had  boldly 
scorned  the  idea  then,  and  had  said : 

"So  it's  music  —  a  cold,  senseless  thing  of 
spidery  marks  on  clean  white  paper  —  that  is 
my  only  rival!  " 

He  had  said,  too,  that  he  was  going  to  win. 
And  he  had  won  —  but  not  until  after  long  weeks 
of  fearing,  hoping,  striving,  and  despairing  —  this 
last  when  Kate's  blundering  had  nearly  made  her 
William's  wife.  Then,  on  that  memorable  day 
in  September,  Billy  had  walked  straight  into  his 
arms;  and  he  knew  that  he  had,  indeed,  won. 
That  is,  he  had  supposed  that  he  knew  —  until 
Arkwright  came. 

Very  sharply  now,  as  he  listened  to  Billy's 
singing,  Bertram  told  himself  to  be  reasonable, 
to  be  sensible;  that  Billy  did,  indeed,  love  him. 
Was  she  not,  according  to  her  own  dear  assertion, 
singing  that  song  to  him?  But  it  was  Arkwright 's 
song.  He  remembered  that,  too  —  and  grew  faint 
at  the  thought.  True,  he  had  won  when  his  rival, 
music,  had  been  a  "  cold,  senseless  thing  of  spidery 
marks  "  on  paper;  but  would  that  winning  stand 
when  "  music  "  had  become  a  thing  of  flesh  and 
blood  —  a  man  of  undeniable  charm,  good  looks, 
and  winsomeness;  a  man  whose  thoughts,  aims, 
and  words  were  the  personification  of  the  thing 


Only  a  Love  Song,  But—          199 

Billy,  in  the  long  ago,  had  declared  she  loved  best 
of  all  —  music? 

Bertram  shivered  as  with  a  sudden  chill;  then 
Billy  rose  from  the  piano. 

"  There!  "  she  breathed,  her  face  shyly  radiant 
with  the  glory  of  the  song.  "  Did  you  —  like 
it?" 

Bertram  did  his  best ;  but,  in  his  state  of  mind, 
the  very  radiance  of  her  face  was  only  an  added 
torture,  and  his  tongue  stumbled  over  the  words 
of  praise  and  appreciation  that  he  tried  to  say. 
He  saw,  then,  the  happy  light  in  Billy's  eyes 
change  to  troubled  questioning  and  grieved 
disappointment;  and  he  hated  himself  for  a 
jealous  brute.  More  earnestly  than  ever,  now, 
he  tried  to  force  the  ring  of  sincerity  into  his  voice; 
but  he  knew  that  he  had  miserably  failed  when 
he  heard  her  falter: 

"  Of  course,  dear,  I  —  I  haven't  got  it  nearly 
perfected  yet.  It'll  be  much  better,  later." 

"  But  it  s  fine,  now,  sweetheart  —  indeed  it  is," 
protested  Bertram,  hurriedly. 

'  Well,  of  course  I'm  glad  —  if  you  like  it," 
murmured  Billy;  but  the  glow  did  not  come  back 
to  her  face. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

SUGARPLUMS 

THOSE  short  December  days  after  Bertram's 
return  from  New  York  were  busy  ones  for  every- 
body. Miss  Winthrop  was  not  in  town  to  give 
sittings  for  her  portrait,  it  is  true ;  but  her  absence 
only  afforded  Bertram  time  and  opportunity  to 
attend  to  other  work  that  had  been  more  or  less 
delayed  and  neglected.  He  was  often  at  Hillside, 
however,  and  the  lovers  managed  to  snatch  many 
an  hour  of  quiet  happiness  from  the  rush  and 
confusion  of  the  Christmas  preparations. 

Bertram  was  assuring  himself  now  that  his 
jealous  fears  of  Arkwright  were  groundless.  Billy 
seldom  mentioned  the  man,  and,  as  the  days 
passed,  she  spoke  only  once  of  his  being  at  the 
house.  The  song,  too,  she  said  little  of;  and 
Bertram  —  though  he  was  ashamed  to  own  it  to 
himself  —  breathed  more  freely. 

The  real  facts  of  the  case  were  that  Billy  had 
told  Arkwright  that  she  should  have  no  time  to 
give  attention  to  the  song  until  after  Christmas; 
and  her  manner  had  so  plainly  shown  him  that 

200 


Sugarplums  201 

she  considered  himself  synonymous  with  the  song, 
that  he  had  reluctantly  taken  the  hint  and  kept 
away. 

"I'll  make  her  care  for  me  sometime  —  for 
something  besides  a  song,"  he  told  himself  with 
fierce  consolation  —  but  Billy  did  not  know  this. 

Aside  from  Bertram,  Christmas  filled  all  of 
Billy's  thoughts  these  days.  There  were  such  a 
lot  of  things  she  wished  to  do. 

"  But,  after  all,  they're  only  sugarplums,  you 
know,  that  I'm  giving,  dear,"  she  declared  to 
Bertram  one  day,  when  he  had  remonstrated  with 
with  her  for  so  taxing  her  time  and  strength. 
"  I  can't  really  do  much." 

11  Much!  "  scoffed  Bertram. 

"But  it  isn't  much,  honestly  —  compared  to 
what  there  is  to  do,"  argued  Billy.  "  You  see, 
dear,  it's  just  this,"  she  went  on,  her  bright  face 
sobering  a  little.  "  There  are  such  a  lot  of  people 
in  the  world  who  aren't  really  poor.  That  is,  they 
have  bread,  and  probably  meat,  to  eat,  and  enough 
clothes  to  keep  them  warm.  But  when  you've 
said  that,  you've  said  it  all.  Books,  music,  fun, 
and  frosting  on  their  cake  they  know  nothing 
about  —  except  to  long  for  them." 

"  But  there  are  the  churches  and  the  charities, 
and  all  those  long-named  Societies  —  I  thought 
that  was  what  they  were  for,"  declared  Bertram, 


202  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

still  a  little  aggrievedly,  his  worried  eyes  on  Billy's 
tired  face. 

"  Oh,  but  the  churches  and  charities  don't 
frost  cakes  nor  give  sugarplums,"  smiled  Billy. 
"  And  it's  right  that  they  shouldn't,  too,"  she 
added  quickly.  "  They  have  more  than  they  can 
do  now  with  the  roast  beef  and  coal  and  flannel 
petticoats  that  are  really  necessary." 

"  And  so  it's  just  frosting  and  sugarplums,  is 
it  —  these  books  and  magazines  and  concert 
tickets  and  lace  collars  for  the  crippled  boy,  the 
spinster  lady,  the  little  widow,  and  all  the  rest 
of  those  people  who  were  here  last  summer?  " 

Billy  turned  in  confused  surprise. 

"  Why,  Bertram,  however  in  the  world  did 
you  find  out  about  all  —  that?  " 

"  I  didn't.  I  just  guessed  it  —  and  it  seems 
'  the  boy  guessed  right  the  very  first  time,'  " 
laughed  Bertram,  teasingly,  but  with  a  tender- 
light  in  his  eyes.  "  Oh,  and  I  suppose  you'll  be 
sending  a  frosted  cake  to  the  Lowestoft  lady, 
too,  eh?  " 

Billy's  chin  rose  to  a  defiant  stubbornness. 

"I'm  going  to  try  to  —  if  I  can  find  out  what 
kind  of  frosting  she  likes." 

"How  about  the  Alice  lady  —  or  perhaps 
I  should  say,  the  Lady  Alice?  "  smiled  the  man. 

Billy  relaxed  visibly. 


Sugarplums  203 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  she  sighed.  "  There  is  —  the 
Lady  Alice.  But,  anyhow,  she  can't  call  a  Christ- 
mas present  '  charity  '  —  not  if  it's  only  a  little 
bit  of  frosting!  "  Billy's  chin  came  up  again. 

"  And  you're  going  to,  really,  dare  to  send  her 
something?  " 

"  Yes,"  avowed  Billy.  "  I'm  going  down  there 
one  of  these  days,  in  the  morning  —  " 

'You're  going  down  there!  Billy  —  not 
alone?  " 

"Yes.    Why  not?" 

"  But,  dearie,  you  mustn't.  It  was  a  horrid 
place,  Will  says." 

"  So  it  was  horrid  —  to  live  in.  It  was  every- 
thing that  was  cheap  and  mean  and  forlorn.  But 
it  was  quiet  and  respectable.  'Tisn't  as  if  I  didn't 
know  the  way,  Bertram;  and  I'm  sure  that  where 
that  poor  crippled  woman  and  daughter  are  safe, 
I  shall  be.  Mrs.  Greggory  is  a  lady,  Bertram,  well- 
born and  well-bred,  I'm  sure  —  and  that's  the 
pity  of  it,  to  have  to  live  in  a  place  like  that! 
They  have  seen  better  days,  I  know.  Those 
pitiful  little  worn  crutches  of  hers  were  ma- 
hogany, I'm  sure,  Bertram,  and  they  were  silver 
mounted." 

Bertram  made  a  restless  movement. 

"  I  know,  dear;  but  if  you  had  some  one  with 
you!  It  wouldn't  do  for  Will,  of  course,  nor  me  — 


204  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

under  the  circumstances.  But  there's  Aunt 
Hannah  —  "  He  paused  hopefully. 

Billy  chuckled. 

"  Bless  your  dear  heart!  Aunt  Hannah  would 
call  for  a  dozen  shawls  in  that  place  —  if  she  had 
breath  enough  to  call  for  any  after  she  got  to 
the  top  of  those  four  flights!  " 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  rejoined  Bertram,  with 
an  unwilling  smile.  "  Still  —  well,  you  can  take 
Rosa,"  he  concluded  decisively. 

"  How  Miss  Alice  would  like  that  —  to  catch 
me  going  'slumming'  with  my  maid!"  cried 
Billy,  righteous  indignation  in  her  voice.  "  Hon- 
estly, Bertram,  I  think  even  gentle  Mrs.  Greggory 
wouldn't  stand  for  that." 

"  Then  leave  Rosa  outside  in  the  hall,"  planned 
Bertram,  promptly;  and  after  a  few  more  argu- 
ments, Billy  finally  agreed  to  this. 

It  was  with  Rosa,  therefore,  that  she  set  out 
the  next  morning  for  the  little  room  up  four  flights 
on  the  narrow  West  End  street. 

Leaving  the  maid  on  the  top  stair  of  the  fourth 
flight,  Billy  tapped  at  Mrs.  Greggory's  door.  To 
her  joy  Mrs.  Greggory  herself  answered  the 
knock. 

"Oh!  Why  —  why,  good  morning,"  murmured 
the  lady,  in  evident  embarrassment.  ;<  Won't 
you  —  come  in?  " 


Sugarplums  205 

"Thank  you.  May  I?  —  just  a  minute?" 
smiled  Billy,  brightly. 

As  she  entered  the  room,  Billy  threw  a  hasty 
look  about  her.  There  was  no  one  but  themselves 
present.  With  a  sigh  of  satisfaction,  therefore, 
the  girl  took  the  chair  Mrs.  Greggory  offered, 
and  began  to  speak. 

"  I  was  down  this  way  —  that  is,  I  came  this 
way  this  morning,"  she  began  a  little  hastily; 
"  and  I  wanted  just  to  come  up  and  tell  you  how 
sorry  I  was  about  —  about  that  teapot  the  other 
day.  We  didn't  want  it,  of  course  —  if  you  didn't 
want  us  to  have  it." 

A  swift  change  crossed  Mrs.  Greggory's  per- 
turbed face. 

"  Oh,  then  you  didn't  come  for  it  again  —  to- 
day," she  said.  "  I'm  so  glad!  I  didn't  want  to 
refuse  —  you." 

"  Indeed  I  didn't  come  for  it  —  and  we  sha'n't 
again.  Don't  worry  about  that,  please." 

Mrs.  Greggory  sighed. 

"  I'm  afraid  you  thought  me  very  rude  and —  and 
impossible  the  other  day,"  she  stammered.  "  And 
please  let  me  take  this  opportunity  right  now  to 
apologize  for  my  daughter.  She  was  overwrought 
and  excited.  She  didn't  know  what  she  was  saying 
or  doing,  I'm  sure.  She  was  ashamed,  I  think  after 
you  left." 


206  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

Billy  raised  a  quick  hand  of  protest. 

"  Don't,  please  don't,  Mrs.  Greggory,"  she 
begged. 

"  But  it  was  our  fault  that  you  came.  We 
asked  you  to  come  —  through  Mr.  Harlow,"  re- 
joined the  other,  hurriedly.  "  And  Mr.  Henshaw 

—  was  that  his  name?  —  was  so  kind  in  every 
way.    I'm  glad  of  this  chance  to  tell  you  how  much 
we  really  did  appreciate  it  —  and  your  offer,  too, 
which  we  could  not,  of  course,  accept,"  she  finished, 
the  bright  color  flooding  her  delicate  face. 

Again  Billy  raised  a  protesting  hand;  but  the 
little  woman  in  the  opposite  chair  hurried  on. 
There  was  still  more,  evidently,  that  she  wished 
to  say. 

"  I  hope  Mr.  Henshaw  did  not  feel  too  disap- 
pointed —  about  the  Lowestoft.  We  didn't  want 
to  let  it  go  if  we  could  help  it;  and  we  hope  now 
to  keep  it." 

"Of  course,"  murmured  Billy,  sympathetically. 

"  My  daughter  knew,  you  see,  how  much  I  have 
always  thought  of  it,  and  she  was  determined  that 
I  should  not  give  it  up.  She  said  I  should  have 
that  much  left,  anyway.  You  see  —  my  daughter 
is  very  unreconciled,  still,  to  things  as  they  are; 
and  no  wonder,  perhaps.  They  are  so  different 

—  from  what  they  were!"     Her  voice  broke  a 
little. 


Sugarplums  207 

"  Of  course,"  said  Billy  again,  and  this  time 
the  words  were  tinged  with  impatient  indignation. 
"  If  only  there  were  something  one  could  do  to 
help!" 

"  Thank  you,  my  dear,  but  there  isn't  —  indeed 
there  isn't,"  rejoined  the  other,  quickly;  and 
Billy,  looking  into  the  proudly  lifted  face,  real- 
ized suddenly  that  daughter  Alice  had  perhaps 
inherited  some  traits  from  mother.  "  We  shall 
get  along  very  well,  I  am  sure.  My  daughter 
has  still  another  pupil.  She  will  be  home  soon  to 
tell  you  herself,  perhaps." 

Billy  rose  with  a  haste  so  marked  it  was  almost 
impolite,  as  she  murmured: 

"  Will  she?  I'm  afraid,  though,  that  I  sha'n't 
see  her,  after  all,  for  I  must  go.  And  may  I  leave 
these,  please? "  she  added,  hurriedly  unpinning 
the  bunch  of  white  carnations  from  her  coat. 
"  It  seems  a  pity  to  let  them  wilt,  when  you  can 
put  them  in  water  right  here."  Her  studiously 
casual  voice  gave  no  hint  that  those  particular 
pinks  had  been  bought  less  than  half  an  hour 
before  of  a  Park  Street  florist  so  that  Mrs.  Greg-' 
gory  might  put  them  in  water  —  right  there. 

"  Oh,  oh,  how  lovely!  "  breathed  Mrs.  Greggory, 
her  face  deep  in  the  feathery  bed  of  sweetness. 
Before  she  could  half  say  "  Thank  you,"  however, 
she  found  herself  alone. 


CHAPTER   XIX 

ALICE  GREGGORY 

CHRISTMAS  came  and  went;  and  in  a  flurry  of 
snow  and  sleet  January  arrived.  The  holidays 
over,  matters  and  things  seemed  to  settle  down 
to  the  winter  routine. 

Miss  Winthrop  had  prolonged  her  visit  in 
Washington  until  after  Christmas,  but  she  had 
returned  to  Boston  now  —  and  with  her  she  had 
brought  a  brand-new  idea  for  her  portrait;  an 
idea  that  caused  her  to  sweep  aside  with  superb 
disdain  all  poses  and  costumes  and  sketches  to 
date,  and  announce  herself  with  disarming  win- 
someness  as  "  all  ready  now  to  really  begin!  " 

Bertram  Henshaw  was  vexed,  but  helpless.  De- 
cidedly he  wished  to  paint  Miss  Marguerite  Win- 
throp's  portrait;  but  to  attempt  to  paint  it  when 
all  matters  were  not  to  the  lady's  liking  were 
worse  than  useless,  unless  he  wished  to  hang 
this  portrait  in  the  gallery  of  failures  along  with 
Anderson's  and  Fullam's  —  and  that  was  not 
the  goal  he  had  set  for  it.  As  to  the  sordid  money 

part  of  the  affair  —  the  great  J.  G.  Winthrop 

208 


Alice  Greggory  209 

himself  had  come  to  the  artist,  and  in  one  terse 
sentence  had  doubled  the  original  price  and  ex- 
pressed himself  as  hopeful  that  Henshaw  would 
put  up  with  "  the  child's  notions."  It  was  the 
old  financier's  next  sentence,  however,  that  put 
the  zest  of  real  determination  into  Bertram,  for 
because  of  it,  the  artist  saw  what  this  portrait 
was  going  to  mean  to  the  stern  old  man,  and  how 
dear  was  the  original  of  it  to  a  heart  that  was 
commonly  reported  "  on  the  street  "  to  be  made 
of  stone. 

Obviously,  then,  indeed,  there  was  nothing  for 
Bertram  Henshaw  to  do  but  to  begin  the  new  por- 
trait. And  he  began  it  —  though  still,  it  must  be 
confessed,  with  inward  questionings.  Before  a 
week  had  passed,  however,  every  trace  of  irrita- 
tion had  fled,  and  he  was  once  again  the  absorbed 
artist  who  sees  the  vision  of  his  desire  taking  pal- 
pable shape  at  the  end  of  his  brush. 

"  It's  all  right,"  he  said  to  Billy  then,  one  eve- 
ning. "  I'm  glad  she  changed.  It's  going  to  be 
the  best,  the  very  best  thing  I've  ever  done  —  I 
think,  by  the  sketches." 

"I'm  so  glad!"  exclaimed  Billy.  "I'm  so 
glad!  "  The  repetition  was  so  vehement  that  it 
sounded  almost  as  if  she  were  trying  to  convince 
herself  as  well  as  Bertram  of  something  that  was 
not  true. 


'210  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

But  it  was  true  —  Billy  told  herself  very  in- 
dignantly that  it  was;  indeed  it  was!  Yet  the 
very  fact  that  she  had  to  tell  herself  this,  caused 
her  to  know  how  perilously  near  she  was  to  being 
actually  jealous  of  that  portrait  of  Marguerite 
Winthrop.  And  it  shamed  her. 

Very  sternly  these  days  Billy  reminded  herself 
of  what  Kate  had  said  about  Bertram's  belonging 
first  to  his  Art.  She  thought  with  mortification, 
too,  that  it  did  look  as  if  she  were  not  the  proper 
wife  for  an  artist  if  she  were  going  to  feel  like 
this  —  always.  Very  resolutely,  then,  Billy  turned 
to  her  music.  This  was  all  the  more  easily  done, 
for,  not  only  did  she  have  her  usual  concerts  and 
the  opera  to  enjoy,  but  she  had  become  interested 
in  an  operetta  her  club  was  about  to  give;  also 
she  had  taken  up  the  new  song  again.  Christmas 
being  over,  Mr.  Arkwright  had  been  to  the  house 
several  times.  He  had  changed  some  of  the  words 
and  she  had  improved  the  melody.  The  work 
on  the  accompaniment  was  progressing  finely 
now,  and  Billy  was  so  glad!  —  when  she  was  ab- 
sorbed in  her  music  she  forgot  sometimes  that 
she  was  ever  so  unfit  an  artist's  sweetheart  as  to 
be  —  jealous  of  a  portrait. 

It  was  quite  early  in  the  month  that  the 
usually  expected  "  January  thaw "  came,  and 
it  was  on  a  comparatively  mild  Friday  at  this  time 


Alice  Greggory  211 

that  a  matter  of  business  took  Billy  into  the 
neighborhood  of  Symphony  Hall  at  about  eleven 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  Dismissing  John  and 
the  car  upon  her  arrival,  she  said  that  she  would 
later  walk  to  the  home  of  a  friend  near  by,  where 
she  would  remain  until  it  was  time  for  the  Sym- 
phony Concert. 

This  friend  was  a  girl  whom  Billy  had  known 
at  school.  She  was  studying  now  at  the  Conser- 
vatory of  Music;  and  she  had  often  urged  Billy 
to  come  and  have  luncheon  with  her  in  her  tiny 
apartment,  which  she  shared  with  three  other 
girls  and  a  widowed  aunt  for  housekeeper.  On 
this  particular  Friday  it  had  occurred  to  Billy 
that,  owing  to  her  business  appointment  at  eleven 
and  the  Symphony  Concert  at  half -past  two,  the 
intervening  time  would  give  her  just  the  oppor- 
tunity she  had  been  seeking  to  enable  her  to 
accept  her  friend's  invitation.  A  question  asked, 
and  enthusiastically  answered  in  the  affirmative, 
over  the  telephone  that  morning,  therefore,  had 
speedily  completed  arrangements,  and  she  had 
agreed  to  be  at  her  friend's  door  by  twelve  o'clock, 
or  before. 

As  it  happened,  business  did  not  take  quite  so 
long  as  she  had  expected,  and  half -past  eleven 
found  her  well  on  her  way  to  Miss  Henderson's 
home. 


212  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

In  spite  of  the  warm  sunshine  and  the  slushy 
snow  in  the  streets,  there  was  a  cold,  raw  wind, 
and  Billy  was  beginning  to  feel  thankful  that  she 
had  not  far  to  go  when  she  rounded  a  corner  and 
came  upon  a  long  line  of  humanity  that  curved 
itself  back  and  forth  on  the  wide  expanse  of  steps 
before  Symphony  Hall  and  then  stretched  itself 
far  up  the  Avenue. 

"  Why,  what  —  "  she  began  under  her  breath; 
then  suddenly  she  understood.  It  was  Friday. 
A  world-famous  pianist  was  to  play  with  the  Sym- 
phony Orchestra  that  afternoon.  This  must 
be  the  line  of  patient  waiters  for  the  twenty-five- 
cent  balcony  seats  that  Mr.  Arkwright  had  told 
about.  With  sympathetic,  interested  eyes,  then, 
Billy  stepped  one  side  to  watch  the  line,  for  a  mo- 
ment. 

Almost  at  once  two  girls  brushed  by  her,  and 
one  was  saying: 

"  What  a  shame!  —  and  after  all  our  struggles 
to  get  here!  If  only  we  hadn't  lost  that  other 
train!" 

"We're  too  late  —  you  no  need  to  hurry!'* 
the  other  wailed  shrilly  to  a  third  girl  who  was 
hastening  toward  them.  "  The  line  is  'way  be- 
yond the  Children's  Hospital  and  around  the 
corner  now  —  and  the  ones  there  never  get  in!  " 

At  the  look  of  tragic  disappointment  that  crossed 


Alice  Greggory  213 

the  third  girl's  face,  Billy's .  heart  ached.  Her 
first  impulse,  of  course,  was  to  pull  her  own  sym- 
phony ticket  from  her  muff  and  hurry  forward 
with  a  "  Here,  take  mine!  "  But  that  would  hardly 
do,  she  knew  —  though  she  would  like  to  see 
Aunt  Hannah's  aghast  face  if  this  girl  in  the  red 
sweater  and  white  tam-o'-shanter  should  suddenly 
emerge  from  •among  the  sumptuous  satins  and 
furs  and  plumes  that  afternoon  and  claim  the 
adjacent  orchestra  chair.  But  it  was  out  of  the 
question,  of  course.  There  was  only  one  seat,  and 
there  were  three  girls,  besides  all  those  others. 
"With  a  sigh,  then,  Billy  turned  her  eyes  back  to 
those  others  —  those  many  others  that  made  up 
the  long  line  stretching  its  weary  length  up  the 
Avenue. 

There  were  more  women  than  men,  yet  the 
men  were  there:  jolly  young  men  who  were 
plainly  students ;  older  men  whose  refined  faces  and 
!  threadbare  overcoats  hinted  at  cultured  minds  and 
starved  bodies ;  other  men  who  showed  no  hollows 
in  their  cheeks  nor  near-holes  in  their  garments.  It 
seemed  to  Billy  that  women  of  almost  all  sorts 
were  there,  young,  old,  and  middle-aged ;  students 
in  tailored  suits,  widows  in  crape  and  veil;  girls 
that  were  members  of  a  merry  party,  women  that 
were  plainly  forlorn  and  alone. 

Some  in  the  line  shuffled  restlessly;  some  stood 


Miss  Billy's  Decision 


rigidly  quiet.  One  had  brought  a  camp  stool; 
many  were  seated  on  the  steps.  Beyond,  where  the 
line  passed  an  open  lot,  a  wooden  fence  afforded 
a  convenient  prop.  One  read  a  book,  another  a 
paper.  Three  were  studying  what  was  probably 
the  score  of  the  symphony  or  of  the  concerto  they 
expected  to  hear  that  afternoon. 

A  few  did  not  appear  to  mind  the  biting  wind, 
but  most  of  them,  by  turned-up  coat-collars  or 
bent  heads,  testified  to  the  contrary.  Not  far 
from  Billy  a  woman  nibbled  a  sandwich  furtively, 
while  beyond  her  a  group  of  girls  were  hilariously 
merry  over  four  triangles  of  pie  which  they  held 
up  where  all  might  see. 

Many  of  the  faces  were  youthful,  happy,  and 
alert  with  anticipation;  but  others  carried  a 
wistfulness  and  a  weariness  that  made  Billy's 
heart  ache.  Her  eyes,  indeed,  filled  with  quick 
tears.  Later  she  turned  to  go,  and  it  was  then  that 
she  saw  in  the  line  a  face  that  she  knew  —  a  face 
that  drooped  with  such  a  white  misery  of  spent 
strength  that  she  hurried  straight  toward  it  with 
a  low  cry. 

"  Miss  Greggory!  "  she  exclaimed,  when  she 
reached  the  girl.  "  You  look  actually  ill.  Are 
you  ill?" 

For  a  brief  second  only  dazed  questioning 
stared  from  the  girl's  blue-gray  eyes.  Billy  knew 


Alice  Greggory  215 

when  the  recognition  came,  for  she  saw  the  painful 
color  stain  the  white  face  red. 

"  Thank  you,  no.  I  am  not  ill,  Miss  Neilson," 
said  the  girl,  coldly. 

"But  you  look  so  tired  out!  " 

"  I  have  been  standing  here  some  time;  that 
is  all." 

Billy  threw  a  hurried  glance  down  the  far- 
reaching  line  that  she  knew  had  formed  since  the 
girl's  two  tired  feet  had  taken  their  first  position. 

"But  you  must  have  come  —  so  early!  It 
isn't  twelve  o'clock  yet,"  she  faltered. 

A  slight  smile  curved  Alice  Greggory's  lips. 

"  Yes,  it  was  early,"  she  rejoined  a  little  bitterly; 
"  but  it  had  to  be,  you  know.  I  wanted  to  hear 
the  music;  and  with  this  soloist,  and  this  weather, 
I  knew  that  many  others  —  would  want  to  hear 
the  music,  too." 

"But  you  look  so  white!  How  much  longer  — 
when  will  they  let  you  in?  "  demanded  Billy, 
raising  indignant  eyes  to  the  huge,  gray-pillared 
building  before  her,  much  as  if  she  would  pull 
down  the  walls  if  she  could,  and  make  way  for 
this  tired  girl  at  her  side. 

Miss  Greggory's  thin  shoulders  rose  and  fell 
in  an  expressive  shrug. 

"  Half-past  one." 

Billy  gave  a  dismayed  cry. 


216  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

"  Half  -past  one  —  almost  two  hours  more! 
But,  Miss  Greggory,  you  can't  —  how  can  you 
stand  it  till  then?  You've  shivered  three  times 
since  I  came,  and  you  look  as  if  you  were  going 
to  faint  away." 

Miss  Greggory  shook  her  head. 

"It  is  nothing,  really,"  she  insisted.  "  I  am 
quite  well.  It  is  only  —  I  didn't  happen  to  feel 
like  eating  much  breakfast  this  morning;  and 
that,  with  no  luncheon  — "  She  let  a  gesture 
finish  her  sentence. 

"  No  luncheon!  Why  —  oh,  you  couldn't  leave 
your  place,  of  course,"  frowned  Billy. 

"No,  and"  —  Alice  Greggory  lifted  her 
head  a  little  proudly  —  "I  do  not  care  to  eat 
—  here."  Her  scornful  eyes  were  on  one  of  the 
pieces  of  pie  down  the  line  —  no  longer  a^  tri- 
angle. 

"  Of  course  not,"  agreed  Billy,  promptly.  She 
paused,  frowned,  and  bit  her  lip.  Suddenly  her 
face  cleared.  "  There!  the  very  thing,"  she  ex- 
ulted. "  You  shall  have  my  ticket  this  afternoon, 
Miss  Greggory,  then  you  won't  have  to  stay  here 
another  minute.  Meanwhile,  there  is  an  excellent 
restaurant  —  " 

"Thank  you  —  no.  I  couldn't  do  that,"  cut 
in  the  other,  sharply,  but  in  a  low  voice. 

"  But  you'll  take  my  ticket,"  begged  Billy. 


Alice  Greggory  217 

Miss  Greggory  shook  her  head. 

"  Certainly  not." 

"  But  I  want  you  to,  please.  I  shall  be  very 
unhappy  if  you  don't,"  grieved  Billy. 

The  other  made  a  peremptory  gesture. 

"  /  should  be  very  unhappy  if  I  did,"  she  said 
with  cold  emphasis.  "  Really,  Miss  Neilson," 
she  went  on  in  a  low  voice,  throwing  an  appre- 
hensive glance  at  the  man  ahead,  who  was  ap- 
parently absorbed  in  his  newspaper,  "  I'm  afreid 
I  shall  have  to  ask  you  to  let  me  go  on  in  my  own 
way.  You  are  very  kind,  but  there  is  nothing  you 
can  do;  nothing.  You  were  very  kind,  too,  of 
course,  to  send  the  book  and  the  flowers  to  mother 
at  Christmas;  but  —  " 

"  Never  mind  that,  please,"  interrupted  Billy, 
hurriedly.  Billy's  head  was  lifted  now.  Her  eyes 
were  no  longer  pleading.  Her  round  little  chin 
looked  square  and  determined.  "  If  you  simply 
will  not  take  my  ticket  this  afternoon,  you  must 
do  this.  Go  to  some  restaurant  near  here  and 
get  a  good  luncheon  —  something  that  will  sustain 
you.  I  will  take  your  place  here." 

"  Miss  Neilson!  " 

Billy  smiled  radiantly.  It  was  the  first  time 
she  had  ever  seen  Alice  Greggory's  haughtily 
cold  reserve  break  into  anything  like  naturalness 
—  the  astonished  incredulity  of  that  "  Miss, 


218  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

Neilson!  "  was  plainly  straight  from  the  heart; 
so,  too,  were  the  amazed  words  that  fol- 
lowed. 

"  You  —  will  stand  here?  " 

"  Certainly;  I  will  keep  your  place.  Don't 
wx)rry.  You  sha'n't  lose  it."  Billy  spoke  with  a 
smiling  indifference  that  was  meant  to  convey 
the  impression  that  standing  in  line  for  a  twenty- 
five-cent  seat  was  a  daily  habit  of  hers.  '  There's 
a  restaurant  only  a  little  way  —  right  down 
there,"  she  finished.  And  before  the  dazed  Alice 
Greggory  knew  quite  what  was  happening  she 
found  herself  outside  the  line,  and  the  other  in 
her  place. 

"  But,  Miss  Neilson,  I  can't  —  you  mustn't  - 
she  stammered;  then,  because  of  something  in 
the  unyieldingness  of  the  square  young  chin  above 
the  sealskin  coat,  and  because  she  could  not  (she 
knew)  use  actual  force  to  drag  the  owner  of  that 
chin  out  of  the  line,  she  bowed  her  head  in  acqui- 
escence. 

"Well,  then  —  I  will,  long  enough  for  some 
coffee  and  maybe  a  sandwich.  And  —  thank  you," 
she  choked,  as  she  turned  and  hurried  away. 

Billy  drew  the  deep  breath  of  one  who  has  tri- 
umphed after  long  struggles  —  but  the  breath 
broke  off  short  in  a  gasp  of  dismay:  coming 
straight  up  the  Avenue  toward  her  was  the  one 


Alice  Greggory  219 

person  in  the  world  Billy  wished  least  to  see  at 
that  moment  —  Bertram  Henshaw.  Billy  remem- 
bered then  that  she  had  twice  lately  heard  her 
lover  speak  of  calling  at  the  Boston  Opera  House 
concerning  a  commission  to  paint  an  ideal  head 
to  represent  "  Music  "  for  some  decorative  pur- 
pose. The  Opera  House  was  only  a  short  distance 
up  the  Avenue.  Doubtless  he  was  on  his  way  there 
now. 

He  was  very  near  by  this  time,  and  Billy  held 
her  breath  suspended.  There  was  a  chance,  of 
course,  that  he  might  not  notice  her;  and  Billy 
was  counting  on  that  chance  —  until  a  gust  of 
wind  whirled  a  loose  half-sheet  of  newspaper  from 
the  hands  of  the  man  in  front  of  her,  and  naturally 
attracted  Bertram's  eyes  to  its  vicinity  —  and  to 
hers.  The  next  moment  he  was  at  her  side  and 
his  dumfounded  but  softly-breathed  "  Billy! " 
was  in  her  ears. 

Billy  bubbled  into  low  laughter  —  there  were 
such  a  lot  of  funny  situations  in  the  world,  and 
of  them  all  this  one  was  about  the  drollest,  she 
thought. 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  she  gurgled.  "  You  don't  have 
to  say  it  —  your  face  is  saying  even  more  than 
your  tongue  could!  This  is  just  for  a  girl  I  know, 
I'm  keeping  her  place." 

Bertram  frowned.     He  looked  as  if  he  were 


220  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

meditating  picking  Billy  up  and  walking  off  with 
her. 

"  But,  Billy,"  he  protested  just  above  his  breath, 
"  this  isn't  sugarplums  nor  frosting;  it's  plain 
suicide  —  standing  out  in  this  wind  like  this! 
Besides  —  "  He  stopped  with  an  angrily  despair- 
ing glance  at  her  surroundings. 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  she  nodded,  a  little  soberly, 
understanding  the  look  and  answering  that  first; 
"  it  isn't  pleasant  nor  comfortable,  in  lots  of 
ways  —  but  she's  had  it  all  the  morning.  As  for  the 
cold  —  I'm  as  warm  as  toast.  It  won't  be  long, 
anyway;  she's  just  gone  to  get  something  to  eat. 
Then  I'm  going  to  May  Henderson's  for  luncheon." 

Bertram  sighed  impatiently  and  opened  his 
lips  —  only  to  close  them  with  the  words  unsaid. 
There  was  nothing  he  could  do,  and  he  had  already 
said  too  much,  he  thought,  with  a  savage  glance 
at  the  man  ahead  who  still  had  enough  of  his  paper 
left  to  serve  for  a  pretence  at  reading.  As  Bertram 
could  see,  however,  the  man  was  not  reading  a  word 
—  he  was  too  acutely  conscious  of  the  handsome 
young  woman  in  the  long  sealskin  coat  behind 
him.  Billy  was  already  the  cynosure  of  dozens 
of  eyes,  and  Bertram  knew  that  his  own  arrival 
on  the  scene  had  not  lessened  the  interest  of  the 
owners  of  those  eyes.  He  only  hoped  devoutly 
that  no  one  in  the  line  knew  him  or  Billy,  and  that 


Alice  Greggory  221 

no  one  quite  knew  what  had  happened.  He  did 
not  wish  to  see  himself  and  his  fiancee  the  subject 
of  inch-high  headlines  in  some  evening  paper 
figuring  as: 

"  Talented  young  composer  and  her  famous 
artist  lover  take  poor  girl's  place  in  a  twenty-five- 
cent  ticket  line." 

He  shivered  at  the  thought. 

"  Are  you  cold?  "  worried  Billy.  "  If  you  are, 
don't  stand  here,  please!  " 

He  shook  his  head  silently.  His  eyes  were 
searching  the  street  for  the  only  one  whose  coming 
could  bring  him  relief. 

It  must  have  been  but  a  coffee-and-sandwich 
luncheon  for  the  girl,  for  soon  she  came.  The  man 
surmised  that  it  was  she,  as  soon  as  he  saw  her,  and 
stepped  back  at  once.  He  had  no  wish  for  intro- 
ductions. A  moment  later  the  girl  was  in  Billy's 
place,  and  Billy  herself  was  at  his  side. 

'  That  was  Alice  Greggory,  Bertram,"  she 
told  him,  as  they  walked  on  swiftly;  "  and 
Bertram,  she  was  actually  almost  crying  when 
she  took  my  place." 

"  Humph!  Well,  I  should  think  she'd  better 
be,"  growled  Bertram,  perversely. 

"  Pooh !  It  didn't  hurt  me  any,  dearie,"  laughed 
Billy  with  a  conciliatory  pat  on  his  arm  as  they 
turned  down  the  street  upon  which  her  friend 


222  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

lived.    "  And  now  can  you  come  in  and  see  May  a 
minute?  " 

11  I'm    afraid    not,"    regretted    Bertram.      "  I 
wish  I  could,  but  I'm  busier  than  busy  to-day  - 
and  I  was  supposed  to  be  already  late  when  I  saw 
you.   Jove,  Billy,  I  just  couldn't  believe  my  eyes !  " 

' '  You  looked  it, "  twinkled  Billy .  ' '  It  was  worth 
a  farm  just  to  see  your  face!  " 

"I'd  want  the  farm  —  if  I  was  going  through 
that  again,"  retorted  the  man,  grimly  —  Bertram 
was  still  seeing  that  newspaper  heading. 

But  Billy  only  laughed  again. 


CHAPTER   XX 

ARKWRIGHT  TELLS  A  STORY 

ARKWRIGHT  called  Monday  afternoon  by  ap- 
pointment; and  together  he  and  Billy  put  the 
finishing  touches  to  the  new  song. 

It  was  when,  with  Aunt  Hannah,  they  were 
having  tea  before  the  fire  a  little  later,  that  Billy 
told  of  her  adventure  the  preceding  Friday  after- 
noon in  front  of  Symphony  Hall. 

'  You  knew  the  girl,  of  course  —  I  think  you 
said  you  knew  the  girl,"  ventured  Arkwright. 

"  Oh,  yes.  She  was  Alice  Greggory.  I  met  her 
with  Uncle  William  first,  over  a  Lowestoft  teapot. 
Maybe  you'd  like  to  know  how  I  met  her,"  smiled 
Billy. 

"  Alice  Greggory?  "  Arkwright's  eyes  showed  a 
sudden  interest.  "  I  used  to  know  an  Alice  Greg- 
gory,  but  it  isn't  the  same  one,  probably.  Her 
mother  was  a  cripple." 

Billy  gave  a  little  cry. 

"  Why,  it  is  —  it  must  be !  My  Alice  Greggory 's 
mother  is  a  cripple.  Oh,  do  you  know  them, 

really?  " 

223 


224  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

"  Well,  it  does  look  like  it,"  rejoined  Arkwright, 
showing  even  deeper  interest.  "  I  haven't  seen 
them  for  four  or  five  years.  They  used  to  live 
in  our  town.  The  mother  was  a  little  sweet- 
faced  woman  with  young  eyes  and  prematurely 
white  hair." 

"That  describes  my  Mrs.  Greggory  exactly," 
cried  Billy's  eager  voice.  "  And  the  daughter?  " 

"  Alice?  Why  —  as  I  said,  it's  been  four  years 
since  I've  seen  her."  A  touch  of  constraint  had 
come  into  Arkwright's  voice  which  Billy's  keen 
ear  was  quick  to  detect.  "  She  was  nineteen  then 
—  and  very  pretty." 

"  About  my  height,  and  with  light-brown  hair 
and  big  blue-gray  eyes  that  look  steely  cold  when 
she's  angry?  "  questioned  Billy. 

"  I  reckon  that's  about  it,"  acknowledged  the 
man,  with  a  faint  smile. 

"  Then  they  are  the  ones,"  declared  the  girl, 
plainly  excited-  "  Isn't  that  splendid?  Now  we 
can  know  them,  and  perhaps  do  something  for 
them.  I  love  that  dear  little  mother  already, 
and  I  think  I  should  the  daughter  —  if  she  didn't 
put  out  so  many  prickers  that  I  couldn't  get  near 
her!  But  tell  us  about  them.  How  did  they 
come  here?  Why  didn't  you  know  they  were 
here?  " 

"  Are  you  good  at  answering  a  dozen  questions 


Arkwright  Tells  a  Story          225 

at  once?  "  asked  Aunt  Hannah,  turning  smiling 
eyes  from  Billy  to  the  man  at  her  side. 

"Well,  I  can  try,"  he  offered.  "To  begin 
with,  they  are  Judge  Greggory's  widow  and  daugh- 
ter. They  belong  to  fine  families  on  both  sides, 
and  they  used  to  be  well  off  —  really  wealthy, 
for  a  small  town.  But  the  judge  was  better  at 
money-making  than  he  was  at  money-keeping, 
and  when  he  came  to  die  his  income  stopped,  of 
course,  and  his  estate  was  found  to  be  in  bad 
shape  through  reckless  loans  and  worthless 
investments.  That  was  eight  years  ago.  Things 
went  from  bad  to  worse  then,  until  there  was  al- 
most nothing  left." 

"  I  knew  there  was  some  such  story  as  that 
back  of  them,"  declared  Billy.  "  But  how  do 
you  suppose  they  came  here?  " 

"To  get  away  from  —  everybody,  I  suspect," 
replied  Arkwright.  "  That  would  be  like  them. 
They  were  very  proud;  and  it  isn't  easy,  you 
know,  to  be  nobody  where  you've  been  somebody. 
It  doesn't  hurt  quite  so  hard  —  to  be  nobody  where 
you've  never  been  anything  but  nobody." 

"I  suppose  so,"  sighed  Billy.  "Still  —  they 
must  have  had  friends." 

'  They  did,  of  course;  but  when  the  love  of 
one's  friends  becomes  too  highly  seasoned  with 
pity,  it  doesn't  make  a  pleasant  morsel  to  swallow, 


226  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

specially  if  you  don't  like  the  taste  of  the  pity  - 
and  there  are  people  who  don't,  you  know.  The 
Greggorys  were  that  kind.  They  were  morbidly 
so.  From  their  cheap  little  cottage,  where  they 
did  their  own  work,  they  stepped  out  in  their 
shabby  garments  and  old-fashioned  hats  with 
heads  even  more  proudly  erect  than  in  the  old 
days  when  their  home  and  their  gowns  and  their 
doings  were  the  admiration  and  envy  of  the  town. 
You  see,  they  didn't  want  —  that  pity." 

"  I  do  see,"  cried  Billy,  her  face  aglow  with 
sudden  understanding;  "  and  I  don't  believe 
pity  would  be  —  nice!  "  Her  own  chin  was  held 
high  as  she  spoke. 

"  It  must  have  been  hard,  indeed,"  murmured 
Aunt  Hannah  with  a  sigh,  as  she  set  down  her 
teacup. 

"  It  was,"  nodded  Arkwright.  "  Of  course 
Mrs.  Greggory,  with  her  crippled  foot,  could  do 
nothing  to  bring  in  any  money  except  to  sew  a 
little.  It  all  depended  on  Alice ;  and  when  matters 
got  to  their  worst  she  began  to  teach.  She  was 
fond  of  music,  and  could  play  the  piano  well ;  and 
of  course  she  had  had  the  best  instruction  she 
could  get  from  city  teachers  only  twenty  miles 
away  from  our  home  town.  Young  as  she  was  — 
about  seventeen  when  she  began  to  teach,  I  think 
—  she  got  a  few  beginners  right  away,  and  in 


Arkwright  Tells  a  Story          227 

two  years  she  had  worked  up  quite  a  class,  mean- 
while keeping  on  with  her  own  studies,  herself. 

"  They  might  have  carried  the  thing  through, 
maybe,"  continued  Arkwright,  "  and  never  ap- 
parently known  that  the  '  pity '  existed,  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  some  ugly  rumors  that  suddenly 
arose  attacking  the  Judge's  honesty  in  an  old 
matter  that  somebody  raked  up.  That  was  too 
much.  Under  this  last  straw  their  courage  broke 
utterly.  Alice  dismissed  every  pupil,  sold  almost 
all  their  remaining  goods  —  they  had  lots  of  quite 
valuable  heirlooms;  I  suspect  that's  where  your 
Lowestof t  teapot  came  in  —  and  with  the  money 
thus  gained  they  left  town.  Until  they  could 
go,  they  scarcely  showed  themselves  once  on  the 
street,  they  were  never  at  home  to  callers,  and 
they  left  without  telling  one  soul  where  they  were 
going,  so  far  as  we  could  ever  learn." 

"Why,  the  poor  dears!"  cried  Billy.  "How 
they  must  have  suffered!  But  things  will  be 
different  now.  You'll  go  to  see  them,  of  course, 
and  -  At  the  look  that  came  into  Arkwright 's 
face,  she  stopped  in  surprise. 

'  You  forget;  they  wouldn't  wish  to  see  me," 
demurred  the  man.  And  again  Billy  noticed  the 
odd  constraint  in  his  voice. 

"  But  they  wouldn't  mind  you  —  here"  argued 
Billy. 


228  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

"  I'm  afraid  they  would.  In  fact,  I'm  sure  they'd 
refuse  entirely  to  see  me." 

Billy's  eyes  grew  determined. 

"But  they  can't  refuse  —  if  I  bring  about  a 
meeting  just  casually,  you  know,"  she  challenged. 

Arkwright  laughed. 

"  Well,  I  won't  pretend  to  say  as  to  the  conse- 
quences of  that,"  he  rejoined,  rising  to  his  feet; 
"  but  they  might  be  disastrous.  Wasn't  it  you 
yourself  who  were  telling  me  a  few  minutes  ago 
how  steely  cold  Miss  Alice's  eyes  got  when  she 
was  angry?  " 

Billy  knew  by  the  way  the  man  spoke  that,  for 
some  reason,  he  did  not  wish  to  prolong  the  subject 
of  his  meeting  the  Greggorys.  She  made  a  quick 
shift,  therefore,  to  another  phase  of  the  matter. 

"  But  tell  me,  please,  before  you  go,  how  did 
those  rumors  come  out  —  about  Judge  Greggory's 
honesty,  I  mean?" 

"  Why,  I  never  knew,  exactly,"  frowned  Ark- 
wright, musingly.  "  Yet  it  seems,  too,  that 
mother  did  say  in  one  letter,  while  I  was  in  Paris, 
that  some  of  the  accusations  had  been  found  to 
be  false,  and  that  there  was  a  prospect  that  the 
Judge's  good  name  might  be  saved,  after  all." 

"Oh,  I  wish  it  might,"  sighed  Billy.  "  Think 
what  it  would  mean  to  those  women!  " 

"  'Twould  mean  everything,"  cried  Arkwright, 


Arkwright  Tells  a  Story  229 

warmly ;  "  and  I'll  write  to  mother  to-night,  I  will, 
and  find  out  just  what  there  is  to  it  —  if  anything. 
Then  you  can  tell  them,"  he  finished  a  little  stiffly. 
'  Yes  —  or  you,"  nodded  Billy,  lightly.  And 
because  she  began  at  once  to  speak  of  something 
else,  the  first  part  of  her  sentence  passed  without 
comment. 

The  door  had  scarcely  closed  behind  Arkwright 
when  Billy  turned  to  Aunt  Hannah  a  beaming 
face. 

"  Aunt  Hannah,  did  you  notice?  "  she  cried, 
"  how  Mary  Jane  looked  and  acted  whenever  Alice 
Greggory  was  spoken  of?  There  was  something 
between  them  —  I'm  sure  there  was;  and  they 
quarrelled,  probably." 

:t  Why,  no,  dear;  I  didn't  see  anything  unusual," 
murmured  the  elder  lady. 

"  Well,  I  did.  And  I'm  going  to  be  the  fairy 
godmother  that  straightens  everything  all  out, 
too.  See  if  I'm  not!  They'd  make  a  splendid 
couple,  Aunt  Hannah.  I'm  going  right  down 
there  to-morrow." 

"  Billy,  my  dear!  "  exclaimed  the  more  con- 
servative old  lady,  "  aren't  you  taking  things  a 
little  too  much  for  granted?  Maybe  they  don't 
wish  for  —  for  a  fairy  godmother!  " 

"  Oh,  they  won't  know  I'm  a  fairy  godmother 
—  not  one  of  them;  and  of  course  I  wouldn't 


230  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

mention  even  a  hint  to  anybody,"  laughed  Billy. 
"  I'm  just  going  down  to  get  acquainted  with  the 
Greggorys;  that's  all.  Only  think,  Aunt  Hannah, 
what  they  must  have  suffered!  And  look  at  the 
place  they're  living  in  now  —  gentlewomen  like 
them!" 

"Yes,  yes,  poor  things,  poor  things!"  sighed 
Aunt  Hannah. 

"  I  hope  I'll  find  out  that  she's  really  good  —  at 
teaching,  I  mean  —  the  daughter,"  resumed  Billy, 
after  a  moment's  pause.  "  If  she  is,  there's  one 
thing  I  can  do  to  help,  anyhow.  I  can  get  some 
of  Marie's  old  pupils  for  her.  I  know  some  of 
them  haven't  begun  with  a  new  teacher,  yet ;  and 
Mrs.  Carleton  told  me  last  Friday  that  neither 
she  nor  her  sister  was  at  all  satisfied  with  the  one 
their  girls  have  taken.  They'd  change,  I  know,  in 
a  minute,  at  my  recommendation  —  that  is,  of 
course,  if  I  can  give  the  recommendation,"  con- 
tinued Billy,  with  a  troubled  frown.  "  Anyhow, 
I'm  going  down  to  begin  operations  to-morrow." 


CHAPTER   XXI 

A  MATTER  OF  STRAIGHT   BUSINESS 

TRUE  to  her  assertion,  Billy  went  down  to  the 
Greggorys'  the  next  day.  This  time  she  did  not 
take  Rosa  with  her.  Even  Aunt  Hannah  con- 
ceded that  it  would  not  be  necessary.  She  had 
not  been  gone  ten  minutes,  however,  when  the 
telephone  bell  rang,  and  Rosa  came  to  say  that 
Mr.  Bertram  Henshaw  wanted  to  speak  with  Mrs. 
Stetson. 

"  Rosa  says  that  Billy's  not  there,"  called 
Bertram's  aggrieved  voice,  when  Aunt  Hannah 
had  said,  "  Good  morning,  my  boy." 

"  Dear  me,  no,  Bertram.  She's  in  a  fever  of  ex- 
:nent  this  morning.  She'll  probably  tell  you 
all  about  it  when  you  come  out  here  to-night. 
You  are  coming  out  to-night,  aren't  you?  " 

"  Yes;  oh,  yes!  But  what  is  it?  Where's  she 
gone?  " 

Aunt  Hannah  laughed  softly. 

"  Well,  she's  gone  down  to  the  Greggon V." 

"  The  Greggorys' !    What  —  again?  " 

"  Oh,  you  might  as  well  get  used  to  it,  Bertram,*' 

23J 


232  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

bantered  Aunt  Hannah,  "  for  there'll  be  a  good 
many  '  agains,'  I  fancy." 

"  Why,  Aunt  Hannah,  what  do  you  mean?  " 
Bertram's  voice  was  not  quite  pleased. 

"  Oh,  she'll  tell  you.  It's  only  that  the  Greg- 
gorys  have  turned  out  to  be  old  friends  of  Mr. 
Arkwright's." 

"  Friends  of  Arkwright's!  "  Bertram's  voice 
was  decidedly  displeased  now. 

"  Yes;  and  there's  quite  a  story  to  it  all,  as 
well.  Billy  is  wildly  excited,  as  you'd  know  she 
would  be.  You'll  hear  all  about  it  to-night,  of 
course." 

'  Yes,  of  course,"  echoed  Bertram.  But  there 
was  no  ring  of  enthusiasm  in  his  voice,  neither 
then,  nor  when  he  said  good-by  a  moment  later. 

Billy,  meanwhile,  on  her  way  to  the  Greggory 
home,  was,  as  Aunt  Hannah  had  said,  "  wildly 
excited."  It  seemed  so  strange  and  wonderful 
and  delightful  —  the  whole  affair :  that  she  should 
have  found  them  because  of  a  Lowestoft  teapot, 
that  Arkwright  should  know  them,  and  that  there 
should  be  the  chance  now  that  she  might  help 
them  —  in  some  way;  though  this  last,  she  knew, 
could  be  accomplished  only  through  the  exercise 
of  the  greatest  tact  and  delicacy.  She  had  not 
forgotten  that  Arkwright  had  told  her  of  their 
hatred  of  pity. 


A  Matter  of  Straight  Business     233 

In  the  sober  second  thought  of  the  morning, 
Billy  was  not  sure  now  of  a  possible  romance  in 
connection  with  Arkwright  and  the  daughter, 
Alice;  but  she  had  by  no  means  abandoned  the 
idea,  and  she  meant  to  keep  her  eyes  open  —  and 
if  there  should  be  a  chance  to  bring  such  a  thing 
about  — !  Meanwhile,  of  course,  she  should  not 
mention  the  matter,  even  to  Bertram. 

Just  what  would  be  her  method  of  procedure 
this  first  morning,  Billy  had  not  determined.  The 
pretty  potted  azalea,  in  her  hand  would  be  ex- 
cuse for  her  entrance  into  the  room.  After  that, 
circumstances  must  decide  for  themselves. 

Mrs.  Greggory  was  found  to  be  alone  at  home  as 
before,  and  Billy  was  glad.  She  would  rather  begin 
with  one  than  two,  she  thought.  The  little  woman 
greeted  her  cordially,  gave  misty-eyed  thanks  for 
the  beautiful  plant,  and  also  for  Billy's  kind 
thoughtfulness  Friday  afternoon.  From  that  she 
was  very  skilfully  led  to  talk  more  of  the  daughter ; 
and  soon  Billy  was  getting  just  the  information 
she  wanted  —  information  concerning  the  charac- 
ter, aims,  and  daily  life  of  Alice  Greggory. 

'  You  see,  we  have  some  money  —  a  very  little," 
explained  Mrs.  Greggory,  after  a  time;  "  though 
to  get  it  we  have  had  to  sell  all  our  treasures  — 
but  the  Lowestoft,"  with  a  quick  glance  into 
Billy's  eyes.  "  We  need  not,  perhaps,  live  in 


234  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

quite  so  poor  a  place ;  but  we  prefer  —  just  now 
—  to  spend  the  little  money  we  have  for  some- 
thing other  than  imitation  comfort  —  lessons,  for 
instance,  and  an  occasional  concert.  My  daughter 
is  studying  even  while  she  is  teaching.  She  hopes 
to  train  herself  for  an  accompanist,  and  for  a 
teacher.  She  does  not  aspire  to  concert  solo  work. 
She  understands  her  limitations." 

"  But  she  is  probably  —  very  good  —  at  teach- 
ing." Billy  hesitated  a  little. 

"  She  is;  very  good.  She  has  the  best  of  rec- 
ommendations." A  little  proudly  Mrs.  Greggory 
gave  the  names  of  two  Boston  pianists  —  names 
that  would  carry  weight  anywhere. 

Unconsciously  Billy  relaxed.  She  did  not  know 
until  that  moment  how  she  had  worried  for  fear 
she  could  not,  conscientiously,  recommend  this 
Alice  Greggory. 

"  Of  course,"  resumed  the  mother,  "  Alice's 
pupils  are  few,  and  they  pay  low  prices;  but  she 
is  gaining.  She  goes  to  the  houses,  of  course. 
She  herself  practises  two  hours  a  day  at  a  house 
up  on  Pinckney  Street.  She  gives  lessons  to  a 
little  girl  in  return." 

"I  see,"  nodded  Billy,  brightly;  "and  I've 
been  thinking,  Mrs.  Greggory  —  maybe  I  know 
of  some  pupils  she  could  get.  I  have  a  friend  who 
has  just  given  hers  up,  owing  to  her  marriage. 


A  Matter  of  Straight  Business     235 

Sometime,  soon,  I'm  going  to  talk  to  your  daugh- 
ter, if  I  may,  and  — 

"  And  here  she  is  right  now,"  interposed  Mrs. 
Greggory,  as  the  door  opened  under  a  hurried 
hand. 

Billy  flushed  and  bit  her  lip.  She  was  disturbed 
and  disappointed.  She  did  not  particularly  wish 
to  see  Alice  Greggory  just  then.  She  wished  even 
less  to  see  her  when  she  noted  the  swift  change  that 
came  to  the  girl's  face  at  sight  of  herself. 

"Oh!  Why  —  good  morning,  Miss  Neilson," 
murmured  Miss  Greggory  with  a  smile  so  forced 
that  her  mother  hurriedly  looked  to  the  azalea 
in  search  of  a  possible  peacemaker. 

"  My  dear,  see,"  she  stammered,  "  what  Miss 
Neilson  has  brought  me.  And  it's  so  full  of 
blossoms,  too!  And  she  says  it'll  remain  so  for 
a  long,  long  time  —  if  we'll  only  keep  it  wet." 

Alice  Greggory  murmured  a  low  something  — 
a  something  that  she  tried,  evidently,  very  hard' 
to  make  politely  appropriate  and  appreciative/ 
Yet  her  manner,  as  she  took  off  her  hat  and  coat 
and  sat  down,  so  plainly  said :  "  You  are  very  kind, 
of  course,  but  I  wish  you  would  keep  yourself 
and  your  plants  at  home!  "  that  Mrs.  Greggory 
began  a  hurried  apology,  much  as  if  the  words 
had  indeed  been  spoken. 

"  My  daughter  is  really  ill  this  morning.    You 


236  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

mustn't  mind  —  that  is,  I'm  afraid  you'll  think 
-  you  see,  she  took  cold  last  week ;  a  bad  cold  - 
and  she  isn't  over  it,  yet,"  finished  the  little  woman 
in  painful  embarrassment. 

"Of  course  she  took  cold  —  standing  all 
those  hours  in  that  horrid  wind,  Friday!  "  cried 
Billy,  indignantly. 

A  quick  red  flew  to  Alice  Greggory's  face. 
Billy  saw  it  at  once  and  fervently  wished  she  had 
spoken  of  anything  but  that  Friday  afternoon. 
It  looked  almost  as  if  she  were  reminding  them  of 
what  she  had  done  that  day.  In  her  confusion, 
and  in  her  anxiety  to  say  something  —  anything 
that  would  get  their  minds  off  that  idea  —  she 
uttered  now  the  first  words  that  came  into  her 
head.  As  it  happened,  they  were  the  last  words 
that  sober  second  thought  would  have  told  her 
to  say. 

"  Never  mind,  Mrs.  Greggory.  We'll  have  her 
all  well  and  strong  soon;  never  fear!  Just  wait 
till  I  send  Peggy  and  Mary  Jane  to  take  her  out 
for  a  drive  one  of  these  mild,  sunny  days.  You 
have  no  idea  how  much  good  it  will  do  her!  " 

Alice  Greggory  got  suddenly  to  her  feet.  Her 
face  was  very  white  now.  Her  eyes  had  the 
steely  coldness  that  Billy  knew  so  well.  Her 
voice,  when  she  spoke,  was  low  and  sternly  con- 
trolled. 


A  Matter  of  Straight  Business     237 

"  Miss  Neilson,  you  will  think  me  rude,  of 
course,  especially  after  your  great  kindness  to  me 
the  other  day ;  but  I  can't  help  it.  It  seems  to  me 
best  to  speak  now  before  it  goes  any  further." 

"  Alice,  dear,"  remonstrated  Mrs.  Greggory, 
extending  a  frightened  hand. 

The  girl  did  not  turn  her  head  nor  hesitate; 
but  she  caught  the  extended  hand  and  held  it 
warmly  in  both  her  own,  with  gentle  little  pats, 
while  she  went  on  speaking. 

"I'm  sure  mother  agrees  with  me  that  it  is 
best,  for  the  present,  that  we  keep  quite  to  our- 
selves. I  cannot  question  your  kindness,  of 
course,  after  your  somewhat  unusual  favor  the 
other  day;  but  I  am  very  sure  that  your  friends, 
Miss  Peggy,  and  Miss  Mary  Jane,  have  no  real 
desire  to  make  my  acquaintance,  nor  —  if  you'll 
pardon  me  —  have  I,  under  the  circumstances, 
any  wish  to  make  theirs." 

"  Oh,  Alice,  Alice,"  began  the  little  mother,  in 
dismay;  but  a  rippling  laugh  from  their  visitor 
brought  an  angry  flush  even  to  her  gentle  face. 

Billy  understood  the  flush,  and  struggled  for 
self-control. 

"Please  —  please,  forgive  me!"  she  choked. 
"  But  you  see  —  you  couldn't,  of  course,  know 
that  Mary  Jane  and  Peggy  aren't  girls.  They're 
just  a  man  and  an  automobile!  " 


£38  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

An  unwilling  smile  trembled  on  Alice  Greggory's 
lips ;  but  she  still  stood  her  ground. 

"  After   all,    girls,    or   men   and    automobiles, 
Miss  Neilson  —  it  makes  little  difference.    They're 
—  charity.    And  it's  not  so  long  that  we've  been 
objects  of  charity  that  we  quite  really  enjoy  it  — 
yet." 

There  was  a  moment's  hush.  Billy's  eyes  had 
filled  with  tears. 

"  I  never  even  thought  —  charity,"  said  Billy, 
so  gently  that  a  faint  red  stole  into  the  white 
cheeks  opposite. 

For  a  tense  minute  Alice  Greggory  held  herself 
erect;  then,  with  a  complete  change  of  manner 
and  voice,  she  released  her  mother's  hand,  dropped 
into  her  own  chair  again,  and  said  wearily: 

"  I  know  you  didn't,  Miss  Neilson.  It's  all 
my  foolish  pride,  of  course.  It's  only  that  I  was 
thinking  how  dearly  I  would  love  to  meet  girls 
again  —  just  as  girls!  But  —  I  no  longer  have 
any  business  with  pride,  of  course.  I  shall  be 
pleased,  I'm  sure,"  she  went  on  dully,  "  to  accept 
anything  you  may  do  for  us,  from  automobile 
rides  to  —  to  red  flannel  petticoats." 

Billy  almost  —  but  not  quite  —  laughed.  Still, 
the  laugh  would  have  been  near  to  a  sob,  had  it 
been  given.  Surprising  as  was  the  quick  transi- 
tion in  the  girl's  manner,  and  absurd  as  was  the 


A  Matter  of  Straight  Business     239 

juxtaposition  of  automobiles  and  red  flannel  petti- 
coats, the  white  misery  of  Alice  Greggory's  face 
and  the  weary  despair  of  her  attitude  were  tragic 
—  specially  to  one  who  knew  her  story  as  did 
Billy  INeilson.  And  it  was  because  Billy  did  know 
her  story  that  she  did  not  make  the  mistake  now 
'of  offering  pity.  Instead,  she  said  with  a  bright 
smile,  and  a  casual  manner  that  gave  no  hint 
of  studied  labor: 

11  Well,  as  it  happens,  Miss  Greggory,  what  I 
want  to-day  has  nothing  whatever  to  do  with 
automobiles  or  red  flannel  petticoats.  It's  a 
matter  of  straight  business."  (How  Billy  blessed 
the  thought  that  had  so  suddenly  come  to  her!) 
"  Your  mother  tells  me  you  play  accompaniments. 
Now  a  girls'  club,  of  which  I  am  a  member,  is 
getting  up  an  operetta  for  charity,  and  we  need 
an  accompanist.  There  is  no  one  in  the  club  who 
is  able,  and  at  the  same  time  willing,  to  spend 
the  amount  of  time  necessary  for  practice  and  re- 
hearsals. So  we  had  decided  to  hire  one  outside, 
and  I  have  been  given  the  task  of  finding  one.  It 
has  occurred  to  me  that  perhaps  you  would  be 
willing  to  undertake  it  for  us.  Would  you?  " 

Billy  knew,  at  once,  from  the  quick  change  in 
the  other's  face  and  manner,  that  she  had  taken 
exactly  the  right  course  to  relieve  the  strain  of 
the  situation.  Despair  and  lassitude  fell  away 


240  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

from  Alice  Greggory  almost  like  a  garment.  Her 
countenance  became  alert  and  interested. 

"  Indeed  I  would!    I  should  be  glad  to  do  it." 

"  Good!  Then  can  you  come  out  to  my  home 
sometime  to-morrow,  and  go  over  the  music  with 
me?  Rehearsals  will  not  begin  until  next  week; 
but  I  can  give  you  the  music,  and  tell  you  some- 
thing of  what  we  are  planning  to  do." 

"  Yes.  I  could  come  at  ten  in  the  morning  for 
an  hour,  or  at  three  in  the  afternoon  for  two 
hours  or  more,"  replied  Miss  Greggory,  after  a 
moment's  hesitation. 

"  Suppose  we  call  it  in  the  afternoon,  then," 
smiled  Billy,  as  she  rose  to  her  feet.  "  And  now  I 
must  go  —  and  here's  my  address,"  she  finished, 
taking  out  her  card  and  laying  it  on  the  table 
near  her. 

For  reasons  of  her  own  Billy  went  away  that 
morning  without  saying  anything  more  about 
the  proposed  new  pupils.  New  pupils  were  not 
automobile  rides  nor  petticoats,  to  be  sure  —  but 
she  did  not  care  to  risk  disturbing  the  present 
interested  happiness  of  Alice  Greggory's  face  by 
mentioning  anything  that  might  be  construed  as 
too  officious  an  assistance. 

On  the  whole,  Billy  felt  well  pleased  with  her 
morning's  work.  To  Aunt  Hannah,  upon  her 
return,  she  expressed  herself  thus: 


A  Matter  of  Straight  Business     241 

"  It's  splendid  —  even  better  than  I  hoped.  I 
shall  have  a  chance  to-morrow,  of  course,  to  see 
for  myself  just  how  well  she  plays,  and  all  that. 
I'm  pretty  sure,  though,  from  what  I  hear,  that 
that  part  will  be  all  right.  Then  the  operetta 
will  give  us  a  chance  to  see  a  good  deal  of  her, 
and  to  bring  about  a  natural  meeting  between  her 
and  Mary  Jane.  Oh,  Aunt  Hannah,  I  couldn't 
have  planned  it  better  —  and  there  the  whole 
thing  just  tumbled  into  my  hands!  I  knew  it  had 
the  minute  I  remembered  about  the  operetta. 
You  know  I'm  chairman,  and  they  left  me  to 
get  the  accompanist;  and  like  a  flash  it  came  to 
me,  when  I  was  wondering  -what  to  say  or  do  to 
get  her  out  of  that  awful  state  she  was  in  —  '  Ask 
her  to  be  your  accompanist.'  And  I  did.  And  I'm 
so  glad  I  did!  Oh,  Aunt  Hannah,  it's  coming  out 
lovely!  —  I  know  it  is." 


CHAPTER   XXII 

PLANS    AND    PLOTTINGS 

To  Billy,  Alice  Greggory's  first  visit  to  Hillside 
was  in  every  way  a  delight  and  a  satisfaction.  To 
Alice,  it  was  even  more  than  that.  For  the  first 
time  in  years  she  found  herself  welcomed  into  a 
home  of  wealth,  culture,  and  refinement  as  an  equal ; 
and  the  frank  cordiality  and  naturalness  of  her 
hostess's  evident  expectation  of  meeting  a  con- 
genial companion  was  like  balm  to  a  sensitive 
soul  rendered  morbid  by  long  years  of  supercilious- 
ness and  snubbing. 

No  wonder  that  under  the  cheery  friendliness 
of  it  all,  Alice  Greggory's  cold  reserve  vanished, 
j^nd  that  in  its  place  came  something  very  like 
her  old  ease  and  charm  of  manner.  By  the  time 
Aunt  Hannah  —  according  to  previous  agreement 
—  came  into  the  room,  the  two  girls  were  laughing 
and  chatting  over  the  operetta  as  if  they  had  known 
each  other  for  years. 

Much  to  Billy's  delight,  Alice  Greggory,  as  a 
musician,  proved  to  be  eminently  satisfactory. 

242 


Plans  and  Plottings  243 

She  was  quick  at  sight  reading,  and  accurate. 
She  played  easily,  and  with  good  expression. 
Particularly  was  she  a  good  accompanist,  possess- 
ing to  a  marked  degree  that  happy  faculty  of  ac- 
companying a  singer :  which  means  that  she  neither 
led  the  way  nor  lagged  behind,  being  always  ex- 
actly in  sympathetic  step  —  than  which  nothing 
is  more  soul-satisfying  to  the  singer. 

It  was  after  the  music  for  the  operetta  had  been 
well-practised  and  discussed  that  Alice  Greggory 
chanced  to  see  one  of  Billy's  own  songs  lying  neaf 
her.  With  a  pleased  smile  she  picked  it  up. 

"Oh,  you  know  this,  too!"  she  cried.  "1 
played  it  for  a  lady  only  the  other  day.  It's  so 
pretty,  I  think  —  all  of  hers  are,  that  I  have  seen. 
Billy  Neilson  is  a  girl,  you  know,  they  say,  in 
spite  of — "  She  stopped  abruptly.  Her  eyes 
grew  wide  and  questioning.  "  Miss  Neilson  —  it 
can't  be  —  you  don't  mean  —  is  your  name  —  it 
is  —  you!  "  she  finished  joyously,  as  the  telltale 
color  dyed  Billy's  face.  The  next  moment  her 
own  cheeks  burned  scarlet.  "  And  to  think  of 
my  letting  you  stand  in  line  for  a  twenty -five-cent 
admission!  "  she  scorned. 

"  Nonsense!  "  laughed  Billy.  "  It  didn't  hurt 
me  any  more  than  it  did  you.  Comei  "  -in 
looking  about  for  a  quick  something  to  take  her 
guest's  attention,  Billy's  eyes  fell  on  the  manu- 


244  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

script  copy  of  her  new  song,  bearing  Arkwright's 
name.  Yielding  to  a  daring  impulse,  she  drew 
it  hastily  forward.  "  Here's  a  new  one  —  a  brand- 
new  one,  not  even  printed  yet.  Don't  you  think 
the  words  are  pretty?  "  she  asked. 

As  she  had  hoped,  Alice  Greggory's  eyes,  after 
they  had  glanced  half-way  through  the  first  page, 
sought  the  name  at  the  left  side  below  the  title. 

"  '  Words  by  M.  J.  —  '  "  —  there  was  a 
visible  start,  and  a  pause  before  the  "  '  Ark- 
Wright '  "  was  uttered  in  a  slightly  different  tone. 

Billy  noted  both  the  start  and  the  pause  —  and 
gloried  in  them. 

"  Yes;  the  words  are  by  M.  J.  Arkwright,"  she 
said  with  smooth  unconcern,  but  with  a  covert 
glance  at  the  other's  face.  "  Ever  hear  of  him?  " 

Alice  Greggory  gave  a  short  little  laugh. 

u  Probably  not  —  this  one.  I  used  to  know 
an  M.  J.  Arkwright,  long  ago;  but  he  wasn't  —  a 
poet,  so  far  as  I  know,"  she  finished,  with  a  little 
catch  in  her  breath  that  made  Billy  long  to  take 
her  into  a  warm  embrace. 

Alice  Greggory  turned  then  to  the  music.  She 
had  much  to  say  of  this  —  very  much ;  but  she 
had  nothing  more  whatever  to  say  of  Mr.  M.  J. 
Arkwright  in  spite  of  the  tempting  conversation 
bait  that  Billy  dropped  so  freely.  After  that, 
Rosa  brought  in  tea  and  toast,  and  the  little 


Plans  and  Plottings  245 

frosted  cakes  that  were  always  such  a  favorite 
with  Billy's  guests.  Then  Alice  Greggory  said 
good-by  —  her  eyes  full  of  tears  that  Billy  pre- 
tended not  to  see. 

"  There! "  breathed  Billy,  as  soon  as  she  had 
Aunt  Hannah  to  herself  again.  "  What  did  I 
tell  you?  Did  you  see  Miss  Greggory 's  start 
and  blush  and  hear  her  sigh  just  over  the  name 
of  M.  J.  Arkwright?  Just  as  if — !  Now  I  want 
them  to  meet ;  only  it  must  be  casual,  Aunt  Han- 
nah—  casual!  And  I'd  rather  wait  till  Mary 
Jane  hears  from  his  mother,  if  possible,  so  if  there 
is  anything  good  to  tell  the  poor  girl,  he  can  tell 
it." 

"  Yes,  of  course.  Dear  child !  —  I  hope  he  can," 
murmured  Aunt  Hannah.  (Aunt  Hannah  had 
ceased  now  trying  to  make  Billy  refrain  from  the 
reprehensible  "  Mary  Jane."  In  fact,  if  the  truth 
were  known,  Aunt  Hannah  herself  in  her  thoughts 
—  and  sometimes  in  her  words  —  called  him 
"  Mary  Jane.")  "  But,  indeed,  my  dear,  I  didn't 
see  anything  stiff,  or  —  or  repelling  about  Miss 
Greggory,  as  you  said  there  was." 

"  There  wasn't  —  to-day,"  smiled  Billy.  "  Hon- 
estly, Aunt  Hannah,  I  should  never  have  known 
her  for  the  same  girl  —  who  showed  me  the  door 
that  first  morning,"  she  finished  merrily,  al  she 
turned  to  go  up-stairs. 


246  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

It  was  the  next  day  that  Cyril  and  Marie  came 
home  from  their  honeymoon.  They  went  directly 
to  their  pretty  little  apartment  on  Beacon  Street, 
Brookline,  within  easy  walking  distance  of  Billy's 
own  cozy  home. 

Cyril  intended  to  build  in  a  year  or  two.  Mean- 
while they  had  a  very  pretty,  convenient  home 
which  was,  according  to  Bertram,  "  electrified  to 
within  an  inch  of  its  life,  and  equipped  with  every- 
thing that  was  fireless,  smokeless,  dustless,  and 
laborless."  In  it  Marie  had  a  spotlessly  white 
kitchen  where  she  might  make  puddings  to  her 
heart's  content. 

Marie  had  —  again  according  to  Bertram  — 
"  a  visiting  acquaintance  with  a  maid."  In 
other  words,  a  stout  woman  was  engaged  to  come 
two  days  in  the  week  to  wash,  iron,  and  scrub; 
also  to  come  in  each  night  to  wash  the  dinner 
dishes,  thus  leaving  Marie's  evenings  free-—  "  for 
the  shaded  lamp,"  Billy  said. 

Marie  had  not  arrived  at  this  —  to  her,  delight- 
ful —  arrangement  of  a  "  visiting  acquaintance  " 
without  some  opposition  from  her  friends.  Even 
Billy  had  stood  somewhat  aghast. 

"  But,  my  dear,  won't  it  be  hard  for  you,  to  do 
so  much?  "  she  argued  one  day.  "  You  know 
you  aren't  very  strong." 

41 1  know;  but  it  won't  be  hard,  as  I've  planned 


Plans  and  Plottings  247 

it,"  replied  Marie,  "  specially  when  I've  been  long- 
ing for  years  to  do  this  very  thing.  Why,  Billy, 
if  I  had  to  stand  by  and  watch  a  maid  do  all  these 
things  I  want  to  do  myself,  I  should  feel  just  like 
—  like  a  hungry  man  who  sees  another  man  eating 
up  his  dinner!  Oh,  of  course,"  she  added  plain- 
tively, after  Billy's  laughter  had  subsided,  "  I 
sha'n't  do  it  always.  I  don't  expect  to.  Of  course, 
when  we  have  a  house  —  I'm  not  sure,  then, 
though,  that  I  sha'n't  dress  up  the  maid  and  order 
her  to  receive  the  calls  and  go  to  the  pink  teas, 
while  I  make  her  puddings,"  she  finished  saucily, 
as  Billy  began  to  laugh  again. 

The  bride  and  groom,  as  was  proper,  were,  soon 
after  their  arrival,  invited  to  dine  at  both  William's 
'  and  Billy's.  Then,  until  Marie's  "  At  Homes  " 
should  begin,  the  devoted  couple  settled  down  to 
quiet  days  by  themselves,  with  only  occasional 
visits  from  the  family  to  interrupt  —  "  interrupt  " 
was  Bertram's  word,  not  Marie's.  Though  it  is 
safe  to  say  it  was  not  far  different  from  the  one 
Cyril  used  —  in  his  thoughts. 

Bertram  himself,  these  days,  was  more  than 
busy.  Besides  working  on  Miss  Winthrop's  por- 
trait, and  on  two  or  three  other  commissions,  he 
was  putting  the  finishing  touches  to  four  pictures 
which  he  was  to  show  in  the  exhibition  soon  to  be 
held  by  a  prominent  Art  Club  of  which  he  was 


248  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

the  acknowledged  "  star  "  member.  Naturally, 
therefore,  his  time  was  well  occupied.  Naturally, 
too,  Billy,  knowing  this,  lashed  herself  more 
sternly  than  ever  into  a  daily  reminder  of  Kate's 
assertion  that  he  belonged  first  to  his  Art. 

In  pursuance  of  this  idea,  Billy  was  careful  to 
see  that  no  engagement  with  herself  should  in  any 
way  interfere  with  the  artist's  work,  and  that 
no  word  of  hers  should  attempt  to  keep  him  at  her 
side  when  ART  called.  (Billy  always  spelled 
that  word  now  in  her  mind  with  tall,  black  letters 
—  the  way  it  had  sounded  when  it  fell  from  Kate's 
lips.)  That  these  tactics  on  her  part  were  begin- 
ning to  fill  her  lover  with  vague  alarm  and  a  very 
definite  unrest,  she  did  not  once  suspect.  Eagerly, 
therefore,  —  even  with  conscientious  delight  — 
she  welcomed  the  new  song-words  that  Arkwright 
brought  —  they  would  give  her  something  else 
to  take  up  her  time  and  attention.  She  welcomed 
them,  also,  for  another  reason:  they  would  bring 
Arkwright  more  often  to  the  house,  and  this 
would,  of  course,  lead  to  that  "  casual  meeting  " 
between  him  and  Alice  Greggory  when  the  re- 
hearsals for  the  operetta  should  commence  — 
which  would  be  very  soon  now.  And  Billy  did 
so  long  to  bring  about  that  meeting! 

To  Billy,  all  this  was  but  "  occupying  her  mind," 
and  playing  Cupid's  assistant  to  a  worthy  young 


Plans  and  Plottings  249 

couple  torn  cruelly  apart  by  an  unfeeling  fate. 
To  Bertram  —  to  Bertram  it  was  terror,  and  woe, 
and  all  manner  of  torture;  for  in  it  Bertram  saw 
only  a  growing  fondness  on  the  part  of  Billy  for 
Arkwright,  Arkwright's  music,  Arkwright's  words, 
and  Arkwright's  friends. 

The  first  rehearsal  for  the  operetta  came  on 
Wednesday  evening.  There  would  be  another  on 
Thursday  afternoon.  Billy  had  told  Alice  Greg- 
gory  to  arrange  her  pupils  so  that  she  could  stay 
Wednesday  night  at  Hillside,  if  the  crippled  mother 
could  get  along  alone  —  and  she  could,  Alice  had 
said .  Thursday  forenoon ,  therefore ,  Alice  Greggory 
would,  in  all  probability,  be  at  Hillside,  specially 
as  there  would  doubtless  be  an  appointment  or 
two  for  private  rehearsal  with  some  nervous  soloist 
whose  part  was  not  progressing  well.  Such  being 
the  case,  Billy  had  a  plan  she  meant  to  carry  out. 
She  was  highly  pleased,  therefore,  when  Thursday 
morning  came,  and  everything,  apparently,  was 
working  exactly  to  her  mind. 

Alice  was  there.  She  had  an  appointment  at 
quarter  of  eleven  with  the  leading  tenor,  and  an- 
other later  with  the  alto.  After  breakfast,  there- 
fore, Billy  said  decisively : 

"  Now,  if  you  please,  Miss  Greggory,  I'm  going 
to  put  you  up-stairs  on  the  couch  in  the  sewing- 
room  for  a  nap." 


250  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

"  But  I've  just  got  up,"  remonstrated  Miss 
Greggory. 

"  I  know  you  have,"  smiled  Billy;  "  but  you 
were  very  late  to  bed  last  night,  and  you've  got 
a  hard  day  before  you.  I  insist  upon  your  resting. 
You  will  be  absolutely  undisturbed  there,  and 
you  must  shut  the  door  and  not  come  down-stairs 
till  I  send  for  you.  Mr.  Johnson  isn't  due  till 
quarter  of  eleven,  is  he?  " 

"  N-no." 

"  Then  come  with  me,"  directed  Billy,  leading 
the  way  up-stairs.  "  There,  now,  don't  come  down 
till  I  call  you,"  she  went  on,  when  they  had  reached 
the  little  room  at  the  end  of  the  hall.  "I'm  going 
to  leave  Aunt  Hannah's  door  open,  so  you'll 
have  good  air  —  she  isn't  in  there.  She's  writing 
letters  in  my  room,  Now  here's  a  book,  and  you 
may  read,  but  I  should  prefer  you  to  sleep,"  she 
nodded  brightly  as  she  went  out  and  shut  the 
door  quietly.  Then,  like  the  guilty  conspirator 
she  was,  she  went  down-stairs  to  wait  for  Ark- 
wright. 

It  was  a  fine  plan.  Arkwright  was  due  at  ten 
o'clock  —  Billy  had  specially  asked  him  to  come 
at  that  hour.  He  would  not  know,  of  course,  that 
Alice  Greggory  was  in  the  house;  but  soon  after 
his  arrival  Billy  meant  to  excuse  herself  for  a 
moment,  slip  up-stairs  and  send  Alice  Greggory 


Plans  and  Plottings  251 

down  for  a  book,  a  pair  of  scissors,  a  shawl  for 
Aunt  Hannah  —  anything  would  do  for  a  pretext, 
anything  so  that  the  girl  might  walk  into  the 
living-room  and  find  Arkwright  waiting  for  her 
alone.  And  then—  What  happened  next  was, 
in  Billy's  mind,  very  vague,  but  very  attract- 
ive as  a  nucleus  for  one's  thoughts,  neverthe- 
less. 

All  this  was,  indeed,  a  fine  plan;  but —  (If 
only  fine  plans  would  not  so  often  have  a  "  but  "  !) 
In  Billy's  case  the  "  but  "  had  to  do  with  things 
so  apparently  unrelated  as  were  Aunt  Hannah's 
clock  and  a  negro's  coal  wagon.  The  clock  struck 
eleven  at  half-past  ten,  and  the  wagon  dumped  it- 
self to  destruction  directly  in  front  of  a  trolley 
car  in  which  sat  Mr.  M.  J.  Arkwright,  hurrying 
to  keep  his  appointment  with  Miss  Billy  Neilson. 
It  was  almost  half-past  ten  when  Arkwright 
finally  rang  the  bell  at  Hillside.  Billy  greeted 
him  so  eagerly,  and  at  the  same  time  with  such 
evident  disappointment  at  his  late  arrival,  that 
Arkwright's  heart  sang  with  joy. 

"  But  there's  a  rehearsal  at  quarter  of  eleven," 
exclaimed  Billy,  in  answer  to  his  hurried  expla- 
nation of  the  delay;  "  and  this  gives  so  little  time 
for  —  for  —  so  little  time,  you  know,"  she  fin- 
ished in  confusion,  casting  frantically  about  in 
her  mind  for  an  excuse  to  hurry  up-stairs  and 


Miss  Billy's  Decision 


send  Alice  Greggory  down  before  it  should  be 
quite  too  late. 

No  wonder  that  Arkwright,  noting  the  sparkle 
in  her  eye,  the  agitation  in  her  manner,  and  the 
embarrassed  red  in  her  cheek,  took  new  courage. 
For  so  long  had  this  girl  held  him  at  the  end  of  a 
major  third  or  a  diminished  seventh;  for  so  long 
had  she  blithely  accepted  his  every  word  and  act 
as  devotion  to  music,  not  herself  —  for  so  long 
had  she  done  all  this  that  he  had  come  to  fear 
that  never  would  she  do  anything  else.  No 
wonder  then,  that  now,  in  the  soft  radiance  of  the 
strange,  new  light  on  her  face,  his  own  face 
glowed  ardently,  and  that  he  leaned  forward 
with  an  impetuous  rush  of  eager  words. 

"  But  there  is  time,  Miss  Billy  —  if  you'd  give 
me  leave  —  to  say  —  " 

"  I'm  afraid  I  kept  you  waiting,"  interrupted 
the  hurried  voice  of  Alice  Greggory  from  the  hall 
doorway.  "  I  was  asleep,  I  think,  when  a  clock 
somewhere,  striking  eleven  —  Why,  Mr.  —  Ark- 
wright! " 

Not  until  Alice  Greggory  had  nearly  crossed  the 
room  did  she  see  that  the  man  standing  by  her 
hostess  was  —  not  the  tenor  she  had  expected  to 
find  —  but  an  old  acquaintance.  Then  it  was 
that  the  tremulous  "  Mr.  —  Arkwright!  "  fell  from 
her  lips. 


Plans  and  Plottings  253 

Billy  and  Arkwright  had  turned  at  her  first 
words.  At  her  last,  Arkwright,  with  a  half -de- 
spairing, half -reproachful  glance  at  Billy,  stepped 
forward. 

"  Miss  Greggory!  —  you  are  Miss  Alice  Greg- 
gory,  I  am  sure,"  he  said  pleasantly. 

At  the  first  opportunity  Billy  murmured  a 
hasty  excuse  and  left  the  room.  To  Aunt  Hannah 
she  flew  with  a  woebegone  face. 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Hannah,  Aunt  Hannah,"  she 
wailed,  half  laughing,  half  crying;  "  that  wretched 
little  fib-teller  of  a  clock  of  yours  spoiled  it 
all!" 

"  Spoiled  it!    Spoiled  what,  child?  " 

"  My  first  meeting  between  Mary  Jane  and 
Miss  Greggory.  I  had  it  all  arranged  that  they 
were  to  have  it  alone;  but  that  miserable  little 
fibber  up-stairs  struck  eleven  at  half-past  ten, 
and  Miss  Greggory  heard  it  and  thought  she  was 
fifteen  minutes  late.  So  down  she  hurried,  half 
awake,  and  spoiled  all  my  plans.  Now  she's 
sitting  in  there  with  him,  in  chairs  the  length  of 
the  room  apart,  discussing  the  snowstorm  last 
night  or  the  moonrise  this  morning  —  or  some 
other  such  silly  thing.  And  I  had  it  so  beautifully 
planned!  " 

"  Well,  well,  dear,  I'm  sorry,  I'm  sure,"  smiled 
Aunt  Hannah;  "  but  I  can't  think  any  real  harm 


254  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

is  done.  Did  Mary  Jane  have  anything  to  tell 
her  —  about  her  father,  I  mean?  " 

Only  the  faintest  nicker  of  Billy's  eyelid  testified 
that  the  everyday  accustomedness  of  that  "  Mary 
Jane  "  on  Aunt  Hannah's  lips  had  not  escaped  her. 

"  No,  nothing  definite.  Yet  there  was  a  little. 
Friends  are  still  trying  to  clear  his  name,  and  I 
believe  are  meeting  with  increasing  success.  I 
don't  know,  of  course,  whether  he'll  say  anything 
about  it  to-day  —  now.  To  think  I  had  to  be 
right  round  under  foot  like  that  when  they  met!  " 
went  on  Billy,  indignantly.  "  I  shouldn't  have 
been,  in  a  minute  more,  though.  I  was  just  trying 
to  think  up  an  excuse  to  come  up  and  send  down 
Miss  Greggory,  when  Mary  Jane  began  to  tell 
me  something  —  I  haven't  the  faintest  idea  what 
—  then  she  appeared,  and  it  was  all  over.  And 
there's  the  doorbell,  and  the  tenor,  I  suppose;  so 
of  course  it's  all  over  now,"  she  sighed,  rising  to  go 
1  down-stairs. 

As  it  chanced,  however,  it  was  not  the  tenor, 
but  a  message  from  him  —  a  message  that  brought 
dire  consternation  to  the  Chairman  of  the  Com- 
mittee of  Arrangements.  The  tenor  had  thrown 
up  his  part.  He  could  not  take  it;  it  was  too 
difficult.  He  felt  that  this  should  be  told  at  once 
rather  than  to  worry  along  for  another  week  or 
two,  and  then  give  up.  So  he  had  told  it. 


Plans  and  Plottings  255 

"  But  what  shall  we  do,  Miss  Greggory? " 
appealed  Billy.  "  It  is  a  hard  part,  you  know; 
but  if  Mr.  Tobey  can't  take  it,  I  don't  know  who 
can.  We  don't  want  to  hire  a  singer  for  it,  if  we  can 
help  it.  The  profits  are  to  go  to  the  Home  for 
Crippled  Children,  you  know,"  she  explained, 
turning  to  Arkwright,  "  and  we  decided  to  hire 
only  the  accompanist." 

An  odd  expression  flitted  across  Miss  Greggory's 
face. 

"Mr.  Arkwright  used  to  sing  —  tenor,"  she 
observed  quietly. 

"As  if  he  didn't  now  —  a  perfectly  glorious 
tenor,"  retorted  Billy.  "  But  as  if  he  would  take 
Otis!  " 

For  only  a  brief  moment  did  Arkwright  hesi- 
tate ;  then  blandly  he  suggested : 

"  Suppose  you  try  him,  and  see." 

Billy  sat  suddenly  erect. 

"Would  you,  really?  Could  you  —  take  the 
time,  and  all?  "  she  cried. 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  would  —  under  the  circum- 
stances," he  smiled.  "  I  think  I  could,  too, 
though  I  might  not  be  able  to  attend  all  the  re- 
hearsals. Still,  if  I  find  I  have  to  ask  permission, 
I'll  endeavor  to  convince  the  powers-that-be  that 
singing  in  this  operetta  will  be  just  the  stepping- 
stone  I  need  to  success  in  Grand  Opera." 


256  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

"  Oh,  if  you  only  would  take  it,"  breathed  Billy, 
"we'd  be  so  glad!" 

"  Well,"  said  Arkwright,  his  eyes  on  Billy's 
frankly  delighted  face,  "  as  I  said  before  —  under 
i  the  circumstances  I  think  I  would." 

"  Thank  you!  Then  it's  all  beautifully  settled," 
rejoiced  Billy,  with  a  happy  sigh;  and  uncon- 
sciously she  gave  Alice  Greggory's  hand  near  her 
a  little  pat. 

In  Billy's  mind  the  "  circumstances  "  of  Ark- 
wright's  acceptance  of  the  part  were  Alice  Greg- 
gory  and  her  position  as  accompanist,  of  course. 
Billy  would  have  been  surprised  indeed  —  and 
dismayed  —  had  she  known  that  in  Arkwright's 
mind  the  "  circumstances  "  were  herself,  and  the 
fact  that  she,  too,  had  a  part  in  the  operetta, 
necessitating  her  presence  at  rehearsals,  and  hint- 
ing at  a  delightful  comradeship  impossible,  per- 
.  haps,  otherwise. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE   CAUSE   AND    BERTRAM 

FEBRUARY  came.  The  operetta,  for  which 
Billy  was  working  bo  hard,  was  to  be  given  the 
twentieth.  The  Art  Exhibition,  for  which  Bertram 
was  preparing  his  four  pictures,  was  to  open  the 
sixteenth,  with  a  private  view  for  specially  in- 
vited friends  the  evening  before. 

On  the  eleventh  day  of  February  Mrs.  Greggory 
and  her  daughter  arrived  at  Hillside  for  a  ten- 
days'  visit.  Not  until  after  a  great  deal  of  plead- 
ing and  argument,  however,  had  Billy  been  able 
to  bring  this  about. 

"  But,  my  dears,  both  of  you,"  Billy  had  at 
last  said  to  them;  "just  listen.  We  shall  have 
numberless  rehearsals  during  those  last  ten  days 
before  the  thing  comes  off.  They  will  be  at  all 
hours,  and  of  all  lengths.  You,  Miss  Greggory, 
will  have  to  be  on  hand  for  them  all,  of  course, 
and  will  have  to  stay  all  night  several  times, 
probably.  You,  Mrs.  Greggory,  ought  not  to 
be  alone  down  here.  There  is  no  sensible,  valid 
reason  why  you  should  not  both  come  out  to  the 

257 


258  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

house  for  those  ten  days ;  and  I  shall  feel  seriously 
hurt  and  offended  if  you  do  not  consent  to  do 
it." 

"But  —  my  pupils,"  Alice  Greggory  had  de- 
murred. 

"  You  can  go  in  town  from  my  home  at  any 
time  to  give  your  lessons,  and  a  little  shifting 
about  and  arranging  for  those  ten  days  will  enable 
you  to  set  the  hours  conveniently  one  after  an- 
other, I  am  sure,  so  you  can  attend  to  several  on 
one  trip.  Meanwhile  your  mother  will  be  having 
a  lovely  time  teaching  Aunt  Hannah  how  to 
knit  a  new  shawl;  so  you  won't  have  to  be 
worrying  about  her." 

After  all,  it  had  been  the  great  good  and  pleasure 
which  the  visit  would  bring  to  Mrs.  Greggory  that 
had  been  the  final  straw  to  tip  the  scales.  On  the 
eleventh  of  February,  therefore,  in  the  company 
of  the  once  scorned  "  Peggy  and  Mary  Jane," 
Alice  Greggory  and  her  mother  had  arrived  at 
Hillside, 

Ever  since  the  first  meeting  of  Alice  Greggory 
and  Arkwright,  Billy  had  been  sorely  troubled 
by  the  conduct  of  the  two  young  people.  She  had, 
as  she  mournfully  told  herself,  been  able  to  make 
nothing  of  it.  The  two  were  civility  itself  to  each 
other,  but  very  plainly  they  were  not  at  ease  in 
each  other's  company;  and  Billy,  much  to  her 


The  Cause  and  Bertram  259 

surprise,  had  to  admit  that  Arkwright  did  not 
appear  to  appreciate  the  "  circumstances  "  now 
that  he  had  them.  The  pair  called  each  other, 
ceremoniously,  "  Mr.  Arkwright,"  and  "  Miss 
Greggory  "  -  but  then,  that,  of  course,  did  not 
"  signify,"  Billy  declared  to  herself. 

"  I  suppose  you  don't  ever  call  him  '  Mary 
Jane,'  "  she  said  to  the  girl,  a  little  mischievously, 
one  day. 

"'Mary  Jane'?  Mr.  Arkwright?  No,  I  don't," 
rejoined  Miss  Greggory,  with  an  odd  smile.  Then, 
after  a  moment,  she  added:  "  I  believe  his  broth- 
ers and  sisters  used  to,  however." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  laughed  Billy.  "  We  thought 
he  was  a  real  Mary  Jane,  once."  And  she  told 
the  story  of  his  arrival.  "  So  you  see,"  she  fin- 
ished, when  Alice  Greggory  had  done  laughing 
over  the  tale,  "  he  always  will  be  '  Mary  Jane  '  to 
us.  By  the  way,  what  is  his  name?  " 

Miss  Greggory  looked  up  in  surprise. 

"  Why,  it's  —  "  She  stopped  short,  her  eyes 
questioning.  "  Why,  hasn't  he  ever  told  you?  " 
she  queried. 

Billy  lifted  her  chin. 

"  No.  He  told  us  to  guess  it,  and  we  have 
guessed  everything  we  can  think  of,  even  up  to 
'  Methuselah  John ' ;  but  he  says  we  haven't 
hit  it  yet." 


260  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

"  '  Methuselah  John,'  indeed!  "  laughed  the 
other,  merrily. 

;<  Well,  I'm  sure  that's  a  nice,  solid  name," 
defended  Billy,  her  chin  still  at  a  challenging 
tilt.  "  If  it  isn't  '  Methuselah  John,'  what  is  it, 
then?  " 

But  Alice  Greggory  shook  her  head.  She,  too, 
it  seemed,  could  be  firm,  on  occasion.  And  though 
she  smiled  brightly,  all  she  would  say,  was: 

"  If  he  hasn't  told  you,  I  sha'n't.  You'll  have 
to  go  to  him." 

"  Oh,  well,  I  can  still  call  him  '  Mary  Jane/  " 
retorted  Billy,  with  airy  disdain. 

All  this,  however,  so  far  as  Billy  could  see,  was 
not  in  the  least  helping  along  the  cause  that  had 
become  so  dear  to  her  —  the  reuniting  of  a  pair 
of  lovers.  It  occurred  to  her  then,  one  day,  that 
perhaps,  after  all,  they  were  not  lovers,  and  did 
not  wish  to  be  reunited.  At  this  disquieting 
thought  Billy  decided,  suddenly,  to  go  almost  to 
headquarters.  She  would  speak  to  Mrs.  Greggory 
if  ever  the  opportunity  offered.  Great  was  her 
joy,  therefore,  when,  a  day  or  two  after  the  Greg- 
gorys  arrived  at  the  house,  Mrs.  Greggory's 
chance  reference  to  Arkwright  and  her  daughter 
gave  Billy  the  opportunity  she  sought. 

"  They  used  to  know  each  other  long  ago,  Mr. 
Arkwright  tells  me,"  Billy  began  warily. 


The  Cause  and  Bertram  261 

"  Yes." 

The  quietly  polite  monosyllable  was  not  very 
encouraging,  to  be  sure;  but  Billy,  secure  in  her 
conviction  that  her  cause  was  a  righteous  one, 
refused  to  be  daunted. 

"  I  think  it  was  so  romantic  —  their  running 
across  each  other  like  this,  Mrs.  Greggory,"  she 
murmured.  "  And  there  was  a  romance,  wasn't 
there?  I  have  just  felt  in  my  bones  that  there 
was  —  a  romance!  " 

Billy  held  her  breath.  It  was  what  she  had 
meant  to  say,  but  now  that  she  had  said  it,  the 
words  seemed  very  fearsome  indeed  —  to  say  to 
Mrs.  Greggory.  Then  Billy  remembered  her 
Cause,  and  took  heart  —  Billy  was  spelling  it 
now  with  a  capital  C. 

For  a  long  minute  Mrs.  Greggory  did  not  an- 
swer —  for  so  long  a  minute  that  Billy's  breath 
dropped  into  a  fluttering  sigh,  and  her  Cause 
*oecame  suddenly  "  IMPERTINENCE  "  spelled 
in  black  capitals.  Then  Mrs.  Greggory  spoke 
slowly,  a  little  sadly. 

"  I  don't  mind  saying  to  you  that  I  did  hope, 
once,  that  there  would  be  a  romance  there.  They 
were  the  best  of  friends,  and  they  were  well- 
suited  to  each  other  in  tastes  and  temperament. 
I  think,  indeed,  that  the  romance  was  well  under 
way  (though  there  was  never  an  engagement) 


262  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

when  —  "  Mrs.  Greggory  paused  and  wet  her 
lips.  Her  voice,  when  she  resumed,  carried  the 
stern  note  so  familiar  to  Billy  in  her  first  acquaint- 
ance with  this  woman  and  her  daughter.  "  As 
I  presume  Mr.  Arkwright  has  told  you,  we  have 
met  with  many  changes  in  our  life  —  changes 
which  necessitated  a  new  home  and  a  new  mode 
of  living.  Naturally,  under  those  circumstances, 
old  friends  —  and  old  romances  —  must  change, 
too." 

"  But,  Mrs.  Greggory,"  stammered  Billy,  "  I'm 
sure  Mr.  Arkwright  would  want  — "  An  up- 
lifted hand  silenced  her  peremptorily. 

"  Mr.  Arkwright  was  very  kind,  and  a  gentle- 
man, always,"  interposed  the  lady,  coldly;  "  but 
Judge  Greggory's  daughter  would  not  allow  her- 
self to  be  placed  where  apologies  for  her  father 
would  be  necessary  —  ever!  There,  please,  dear 
Miss  Neilson,  let  us  not  talk  of  it  any  more," 
begged  Mrs.  Greggory,  brokenly. 

"  No,  indeed,  of  course  not!  "  cried  Billy;  but 
her  heart  rejoiced. 

She  understood  it  all  now.  Arkwright  and  Alice 
Greggory  had  been  almost  lovers  when  the  charges 
against  the  Judge's  honor  had  plunged  the  family 
into  despairing  humiliation.  Then  had  come  the 
time  when,  according  to  Arkwright's  own  story, 
the  two  women  had  shut  themselves  indoors,  re- 


The  Cause  and  Bertram  263 

fused  to  see  their  friends,  and  left  town  as  soon 
as  possible.  Thus  had  come  the  breaking  of 
whatever  tie  there  was  between  Alice  Greggory 
and  Arkwright.  Not  to  have  broken  it  would  have 
meant,  for  Alice,  the  placing  of  herself  in  a  posi- 
tion where,  sometime,  apologies  must  be  made  for 
her  father.  This  was  what  Mrs.  Greggory  had 
meant  —  and  again,  as  Billy  thought  of  it,  Billy's 
heart  rejoiced. 

Was  not  her  way  clear  now  before  her?  Did 
she  not  have  it  in  her  power,  possibly  —  even 
probably  —  to  bring  happiness  where  only  sadness 
was  before?  As  if  it  would  not  be  a  simple  thing 
to  rekindle  the  old  flame  —  to  make  these  two 
estranged  hearts  beat  as  one  again! 

Not  now  was  the  Cause  an  IMPERTINENCE 
in  tall  black  letters.  It  was,  instead,  a  shining 
beacon  in  letters  of  flame  guiding  straight  to 
victory. 

Billy  went  to  sleep  that  night  making  plans 
for  Alice  Greggory  and  Arkwright  to  be  thrown 
together  naturally  —  "  just  as  a  matter  of  course, 
you  know,"  she  said  drowsily  to  herself,  all  in 
the  dark. 

Some  three  or  four  miles  away  down  Beacon 
Street  at  that  moment  Bertram  Henshaw,  in  the 
Strata,  was,  as  it  happened,  not  falling  asleep, 
was  lying  broadly  and  unhappily  awake,  Ber- 


264  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

tram  very  frequently  lay  broadly  and  unhappily 
awake  these  days  —  or  rather  nights.  He  told 
himself,  on  these  occasions,  that  it  was  perfectly 
natural  —  indeed  it  was!  —  that  Billy  should  be 
with  Arkwright  and  his  friends,  the  Greggorys, 
so  much.  There  were  the  new  songs,  and  the 
operetta  with  its  rehearsals  as  a  cause  for  it  all. 
At  the  same  time,  deep  within  his  fearful  soul 
was  the  consciousness  that  Arkwright,  the  Greg- 
gorys, and  the  operetta  were  but  Music  —  Music, 
the  spectre  that  from  the  first  had  dogged  his 
footsteps. 

With  Billy's  behavior  toward  himself,  Bertram 
could  find  no  fault.  She  was  always  her  sweet, 
loyal,  lovable  self,  eager  to  hear  of  his  work, 
earnestly  solicitous  that  it  should  be  a  success. 
She  even  —  as  he  sometimes  half -irritably  re- 
membered —  had  once  told  him  that  she  realized 
he  belonged  to  Art  before  he  did  to  himself;  and 
when  he  had  indignantly  denied  this,  she  had  only 
laughed  and  thrown  a  kiss  at  him,  with  the  remark 
that  he  ought  to  hear  his  sister  Kate's  opinion  of 
that  matter.  As  if  he  wanted  Kate's  opinion  on 
that  or  anything  else  that  concerned  him  and 
Billy! 

Once,  torn  by  jealousy,  and  exasperated  at  the 
frequent  interruptions  of  their  quiet  hours  to- 
gether*  he  had  complained  openly. 


The  Cause  and  Bertram          265 

"  Actually,  Billy,  it's  worse  than  Marie's  wed- 
ding," he  declared.  "  Then  it  was  tablecloths 
and  napkins  that  could  be  dumped  in  a  chair. 
Now  it's  a  girl  who  wants  to  rehearse,  or  a  woman 
that  wants  a  different  wig,  or  a  telephone  message 
that  the  sopranos  have  quarrelled  again.  I  loathe 
that  operetta!  " 

Billy  laughed,  but  she  frowned,  too. 

"  I  know,  dear;  I  don't  like  that  part.  I  wish 
they  would  let  me  alone  when  I'm  with  you!  But 
as  for  the  operetta,  it  is  really  a  good  thing,  dear, 
and  you'll  say  so  when  you  see  it.  It's  going  to 
be  a  great  success  —  I  can  say  that  because  my 
part  is  only  a  small  one,  you  know.  We  shall 
make  lots  of  money  for  the  Home,  too,  I'm  sure." 

"  But  you're  wearing  yourself  all  out  with  it, 
dear,"  scowled  Bertram. 

"  Nonsense!  I  like  it;  besides,  when  I'm  doing 
this  I'm  not  telephoning  you  to  come  and  amuse 
me.  Just  think  what  a  lot  of  extra  time  you  have 
for  your  work!  " 

"  Don't  want  it,"  avowed  Bertram. 

"  But  the  work  may,"  retorted  Billy,  showing 
all  her  dimples.  "  Never  mind,  though;  it'll  all 
be  over  after  the  twentieth.  This  isn't  an  under- 
study like  Marie's  wedding,  you  know,"  she  fin- 
ished demurely. 

"Thank   heaven   for   that!"     Bertram   had 


266  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

breathed  fervently.  But  even  as  he  said  the  words 
he  grew  sick  with  fear.  What  if,  after  all,  this 
were  an  understudy  to  what  was  to  come  later 
when  Music,  his  rival,  had  really  conquered? 

Bertram  knew  that  however  secure  might  seem 
Billy's  affection  for  himself,  there  was  still  in 
his  own  mind  a  horrid  fear  lest  underneath  that 
security  were  an  unconscious,  growing  fondness 
for  something  he  could  not  give,  for  some  one 
that  he  was  not  —  a  fondness  that  would  one  day 
cause  Billy  to  awake.  As  Bertram,  in  his  morbid 
fancy  pictured  it,  he  realized  only  too  well  what 
that  awakening  would  mean  to  himself. 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

THE  ARTIST  AND  HIS  ART 

THE  private  view  of  the  paintings  and  drawings 
of  the  Brush  and  Pencil  Club  on  the  evening  of 
the  fifteenth  was  a  great  success.  Society  sent 
its  fairest  women  in  frocks  that  were  pictures  in 
themselves.  Art  sent  its  severest  critics  and  its 
most  ardent  devotees.  The  Press  sent  reporters 
that  the  World  might  know  what  Art  and  Society 
were  doing,  and  how  they  did  it. 

Before  the  canvases  signed  with  Bertram  Hen- 
shaw's  name  there  was  always  to  be  found  an 
admiring  group  representing  both  Art  and  Society 
with  the  Press  on  the  outskirts  to  report.  William 
Henshaw,  coming  unobserved  upon  one  such  group, 
paused  a  moment  to  smile  at  the  various  more  or 
less  disconnected  comments./ 

"What  a  lovely  blue!" 

"  Marvellous  color  sense!  " 

"  Now  those  shadows  are  —  " 

"  He  gets  his  high  lights  so  —  " 

"  I  declare,  she  looks  just  like  Blanche  Payton!  '* 

"  Every  line  there  is  full  of  meaning." 

267 


268  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

"  I  suppose  it's  very  fine,  but  —  " 

"  Now,  I  say,  Henshaw  is  —  " 

"  Is  this  by  the  man  that's  painting  Margy 
vWinthrop's  portrait?  " 

"  It's  idealism,  man,  idealism!  " 

"  I'm  going  to  have  a  dress  just  that  shade  of 
blue." 

"  Isn't  that  just  too  sweet!  " 

"  Now  for  realism,  I  consider  Henshaw  — '! 

:t  There  aren't  many  with  his  sensitive,  brilliant 
touch." 

"  Oh,  what  a  pretty  picture!  " 

William  moved  on  then. 

Billy  was  rapturously  proud  of  Bertram  that 
evening.  He  was,  of  course,  the  centre  of  con- 
gratulations and  hearty  praise.  At  his  side, 
Billy,  with  sparkling  eyes,  welcomed  each  smiling 
congratulation  and  gloried  in  every  commend- 
atory word  she  heard. 

"  Oh,  Bertram,  isn't  it  splendid!  I'm  so  proud 
of  you,"  she  whispered  softly,  when  a  moment's 
lull  gave  her  opportunity. 

"  They're  all  words,  words,  idle  words,"  he 
laughed ;  but  his  eyes  shone. 

"  Just  as  if  they  weren't  all  true!  "  she  bridled, 
turning  to  greet  William,  who  came  up  at  that 
moment.  "  Isn't  it  fine,  Uncle  William?  "  she 
beamed.  "  And  aren't  we  proud  of  him?  " 


The  Artist  and  His  Art  269 

"  We  are,  indeed,"  smiled  the  man.  "  But  if 
you  and  Bertram  want  to  get  the  real  opinion  of 
this  crowd,  you  should  go  and  stand  near  one 
of  his  pictures  five  minutes.  As  a  sort  of  crazy- 
quilt  criticism  it  can't  be  beat." 

"  I  know,"  laughed  Bertram.  "  I've  done  it, 
in  days  long  gone." 

"  Bertram,  not  really?  "  cried  Billy. 

"  Sure!  As  if  every  young  artist  at  the  first 
didn't  don  goggles  or  a  false  mustache  and  study 
the  pictures  on  either  side  of  his  own  till  he  could 
paint  them  with  his  eyes  shut!  " 

"  And  what  did  you  hear?  "  demanded  the  girl. 

"  What  didn't  I  hear? "  laughed  her  lover. 
"  But  I  didn't  do  it  but  once  or  twice.  I  lost  my 
head  one  day  and  began  to  argue  the  question 
of  perspective  with  a  couple  of  old  codgers  who 
were  criticizing  a  bit  of  foreshortening  that  was 
my  special  pet.  I  forgot  my  goggles  and  sailed 
in.  The  game  was  up  then,  of  course;  and  I 
never  put  them  on  again.  But  it  was  worth  a 
farm  to  see  their  faces  when  I  stood  '  discovered ' 
—  as  the  stage-folk  say." 

"Serves  you  right,  sir  —  listening  like  that," 
scolded  Billy. 

Bertram  laughed  an^l  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Well,  it  cured  me,  anyhow.  I  haven't  done 
it  since,"  he  declared. 


270  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

It  was  some  time  later,  on  the  way  home,  that 
Bertram  said: 

"  It  was  gratifying,  of  course,  Billy,  and  I 
liked  it.  It  would  be  absurd  to  say  I  didn't  like 
the  many  pleasant  words  of  apparently  sincere 
appreciation  I  heard  to-night.  But  I  couldn't 
help  thinking  of  the  next  time  —  always  the  next 
time." 

"  The  next  time?  "  Billy's  eyes  were  slightly 
puzzled. 

"  That  I  exhibit,  I  mean.  The  Bohemian  Ten 
hold  their  exhibition  next  month,  you  know.  I 
shall  show  just  one  picture  —  the  portrait  of 
Miss  Winthrop." 

"  Oh,  Bertram! " 

"  It'll  be  '  Oh,  Bertram! '  then,  dear,  if  it  isn't 
a  success,"  he  sighed.  "  I  don't  believe  you  real- 
ize yet  what  that  thing  is  going  to  mean  for  me." 

"Well,  I  should  think  I  might,"  retorted 
Billy,  a  little  tremulously,  "  after  all  I've  heard 
about  it.  I  should  think  everybody  knew  you  were 
doing  it,  Bertram.  Actually,  I'm  not  sure  Marie's 
scrub-lady  won't  ask  me  some  day  how  Mr. 
Bertram's  picture  is  coming  on!  " 

"  That's  the  dickens  of  it,  in  a  way,"  sighed 
Bertram,  with  a  faint  smile.  "  I  am  amazed  — 
and  a  little  frightened,  I'll  admit  —  at  the  univer- 
sality of  the  interest.  You  see,  the  Winthrops 


The  Artist  and  His  Art  27ll 

have  been  pleased  to  spread  it,  for  one  reason  or 
another,  and  of  course  many  already  know  of 
the  failures  of  Anderson  and  Fullam.  That's 
why,  if  I  should  fail  —  " 

"  But  you  aren't  going  to  fail,"  interposed 
the  girl,  resolutely. 

"  No,  I  know  I'm  not.  I  only  said  '  if,'  "  fenced 
the  man,  his  voice  not  quite  steady. 

'There  isn't  going  to  be  any  'if,'"  settled 
Billy.  "  Now  tell  me,  when  is  the  exhibition?  " 

"  March  twentieth  —  the  private  view.  Mr. 
Winthrop  is  not  only  willing,  but  anxious,  that  I 
show  it.  I  wasn't  sure  that  he'd  want  me  to  — 
in  an  exhibition.  But  it  seems  he  does.  His 
daughter  says  he  has  every  confidence  in  the  por- 
trait and  wants  everybody  to  see  it." 

"  That's  where  he  shows  his  good  sense,"  de- 
clared Billy.  Then,  with  just  a  touch  of  constraint, 
she  asked:  "And  how  is  the  new,  latest  pose 
coming  on?  " 

"  Very  well,  I  think,"  answered  Bertram,  a 
little  hesitatingly.  "  We've  had  so  many,  many 
interruptions,  though,  that  it  is  surprising  how 
slow  it  is  moving.  In  the  first  place,  Miss  Win- 
throp is  gone  more  than  half  the  time  (she  goes 
again  to-morrow  for  a  week!),  and  in  this  portrait 
I'm  not  painting  a  stroke  without  my  model  before 
me.  I  mean  to  take  no  chances,  you  see ;  and  Miss 


272  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

Winthrop  is  perfectly  willing  to  give  me  all  the  sit- 
tings I  wish  for.  Of  course,  if  she  hadn't  changed 
the  pose  and  costume  so  many  times,  it  would 
have  been  done  long  ago  —  and  she  knows  it." 

"  Of  course  —  she  knows  it,"  murmured  Billy, 
a  little  faintly,  but  with  a  peculiar  intonation  in 
her  voice. 

"  And  so  you  see,"  sighed  Bertram,  "  what  the 
twentieth  of  March  is  going  to  mean  for  me." 

"  It's  going  to  mean  a  splendid  triumph!  " 
asserted  Billy;  and  this  time  her  voice  was  not 
faint,  and  it  carried  only  a  ring  of  loyal  confidence. 

"  You  blessed  comforter!  "  murmured  Bertram, 
giving  with  his  eyes  the  caress  that  his  lips  would 
so  much  have  preferred  to  give  —  under  more 
propitious  circumstances.  ^ 


CHAPTER   XXV 

THE    OPERETTA 

THE  sixteenth,  seventeenth,  and  eighteenth  of 
February  were,  for  Billy,  and  for  all  concerned 
in  the  success  of  the  operetta,  days  of  hurry, 
worry,  and  feverish  excitement,  as  was  to  be  ex- 
pected, of  course.  Each  afternoon  and  every 
evening  saw  rehearsals  in  whole,  or  in  parts.  A 
friend  of  the  Club-president's  sister-in-law  —  a 
woman  whose  husband  was  stage  manager  of  a 
Boston  theatre  —  had  consented  to  come  and 
"  coach "  the  performers.  At  her  appearance 
the  performers  —  promptly  thrown  into  nervous 
spasms  by  this  fearsome  nearness  to  the  "  real 
thing  "  -  forgot  half  their  cues,  and  conducted 
themselves  generally  like  frightened  school  children 
on  "  piece  day,"  much  to  their  own  and  every  one 
else's  despair.  Then,  on  the  evening  of  the  nine- 
teenth, came  the  final  dress  rehearsal  on  the  stage 
of  the  pretty  little  hall  that  had  been  engaged  for 
the  performance  of  the  operetta. 

The  dress  rehearsal,  like  most  of  its  kind,  was, 
for  every  one,  nothing  but  a  nightmare  of  discord, 

273 


274  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

discouragement,  and  disaster.  Everybody's  nerves 
were  on  edge,  everybody  was  sure  the  thing  would 
be  a  "  flat  failure."  The  soprano  sang  off  the 
key,  the  alto  forgot  to  shriek  "  Beware,  beware!  " 
until  it  was  so  late  there  was  nothing  to  beware  of ; 
the  basso  stepped  on  Billy's  trailing  frock  and 
tore  it ;  even  the  tenor,  Arkwright  himself,  seemed 
to  have  lost  every  bit  of  vim  from  his  acting.  The 
chorus  sang  "  Oh,  be  joyful!  "  with  dirge-like 
solemnity,  and  danced  as  if  legs  and  feet  were 
made  of  wood.  The  lovers,  after  the  fashion 
of  amateur  actors  from  time  immemorial,  "  made 
love  like  sticks." 

Billy,  when  the  dismal  thing  had  dragged  its 
way  through  the  final  note,  sat  "  down  front," 
crying  softly  in  the  semi-darkness  while  she  was 
waiting  for  Alice  Greggory  to  "  run  it  through 
just  once  more  "  with  a  pair  of  tired-faced,  fluffy- 
skirted  fairies  who  could  not  learn  that  a  duet 
meant  a  duet  —  not  two  solos,  independently 
hurried  or  retarded  as  one's  fancy  for  the  moment 
dictated. 

To  Billy,  just  then,  life  did  not  look  to  be  even 
half  worth  the  living.  Her  head  ached,  her  throat 
was  going-to-be-sore,  her  shoe  hurt,  and  her  dress 
—  the  trailing  frock  that  had  been  under  the 
basso's  foot  —  could  not  possibly  be  decently 
repaired  before  to-morrow  night,  she  was  sure. 


The  Operetta  275 

Bad  as  these  things  were,  however,  they  were 
only  the  intimate,  immediate  woes.  Beyond  and 
around  them  lay  others  —  many  others.  To  be 
sure,  Bertram  and  happiness  were  supposed  to 
be  somewhere  in  the  dim  and  uncertain  future; 
but  between  her  and  them  lay  all  these  other 
woes,  chief  of  which  was  the  unutterable  tragedy 
of  to-morrow  night. 

It  was  to  be  a  failure,  of  course.  Billy  had 
calmly  made  up  her  mind  to  that,  now.  But  then, 
she  was  used  to  failures,  she  told  herself.  Was 
she  not  plainly  failing  every  day  of  her  life  to 
bring  about  even  friendship  between  Alice  Greggory 
and  Arkwright?  Did  they  not  emphatically  and 
systematically  refuse  to  be  "  thrown  together," 
either  naturally,  or  unnaturally?  And  yet  — 
whenever  again  could  she  expect  such  opportu- 
nities to  further  her  Cause  as  had  been  hers  the 
past  few  weeks,  through  the  operetta  and  its 
rehearsals?  Certainly,  never  again!  It  had  been 
a  failure  like  all  the  rest;  like  the  operetta,  in 
particular. 

Billy  did  not  mean  that  any  one  should  know 
she  was  crying.  She  supposed  that  all  the  per- 
formers except  herself  and  the  two  earth-bound 
fairies  by  the  piano  with  Alice  Greggory  were  gone. 
She  knew  that  John  with  Peggy  was  probably 
waiting  at  the  door  outside,  and  she  hoped  that 


276  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

soon  the  fairies  would  decide  to  go  home  and  go 
to  bed,  and  let  other  people  do  the  same.  For  her 
part,  she  did  not  see  why  they  were  struggling 
so  hard,  anyway.  Why  needn't  they  go  ahead 
and  sing  their  duet  like  two  solos  if  they  wanted' 
to?  As  if  a  little  thing  like  that  could  make  a 
feather's  weight  of  difference  in  the  grand  total 
of  to-morrow  night's  wretchedness  when  the  final 
curtain  should  have  been  rung  down  on  their 
shame ! 

"Miss  Neilson,  you  aren't  —  crying!"  ex- 
claimed a  low  voice ;  and  Billy  turned  to  find  Ark- 
wright  standing  by  her  side  in  the  dim  light. 

"  Oh,  no  —  yes  —  well,  maybe  I  was,  a  little," 
stammered  Billy,  trying  to  speak  very  uncon- 
cernedly. "  How  warm  it  is  in  here!  Do  you 
think  it's  going  to  rain?  —  that  is,  outdoors, 
of  course,  I  mean." 

Arkwright  dropped  into  the  seat  behind  Billy 
and  leaned  forward,  his  eyes  striving  to  read  the 
girl's  half -averted  face.  If  Billy  had  turned, 
she  would  have  seen  that  Arkwright' s  own  face 
showed  white  and  a  little  drawn-looking  in  the 
feeble  rays  from  the  light  by  the  piano.  But  Billy 
did  not  turn.  She  kept  her  eyes  steadily  averted; 
and  she  went  on  speaking  —  airy,  inconsequen- 
tial words. 

"  Dear  me,  if  those  girls  would  only  pull  to- 


The  Operetta  277 


gether!  But  then,  what's  the  difference?  I  sup- 
posed you  had  gone  home  long  ago,  Mr.  Ark- 
wright." 

"  Miss  Neilson,  you  are  crying!  "  Arkwright's 
voice  was  low  and  vibrant.  "  As  if  anything  or 
anybody  in  the  world  could  make  you  cry !  Please 
—  you  have  only  to  command  me,  and  I  will 
sally  forth  at  once  to  slay  the  offender."  His 
words  were  light,  but  his  voice  still  shook  with 
emotion. 

Billy  gave  an  hysterical  little  giggle.  Angrily 
she  brushed  the  persistent  tears  from  her  eyes. 

"  All  right,  then;  I'll  dub  you  my  Sir  Knight," 
she  faltered.  "  But  I'll  warn  you  —  you'll  have 
your  hands  full.  You'll  have  to  slay  my  head- 
ache, and  my  throat-ache,  and  my  shoe  that  hurts, 
and  the  man  who  stepped  on  my  dress,  and  —  and 
everybody  in  the  operetta,  including  myself." 

"Everybody  —  in  the  operetta!"  Arkwright 
did  look  a  little  startled,  at  this  wholesale  slaughter. 
'  Yes.  Did  you  ever  see  such  an  awful,  awful 
thing  as  that  was  to-night?  "  moaned  the  girl. 

Arkwright's  face  relaxed. 

"  Oh,  so  that's  what  it  is!  "  he  laughed  lightly. 
"  Then  it's  only  a  bogy  of  fear  that  I've  got  to 
slay,  after  all;  and  I'll  despatch  that  right  now 
with  a  single  blow.  Dress  rehearsals  always  go 
like  that  to-night.  I've  been  in  a  dozen,  and  I 


278  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

never  yet  saw  one  go  half  decent.  Don't  you 
worry.  The  worse  the  rehearsal,  the  better  the 
performance,  every  time!  " 

Billy  blinked  off  the  tears  and  essayed  a  smile 
as  she  retorted: 

"  Well,  if  that's  so,  then  ours  to-morrow  night 
ought  to  be  a  —  a  —  " 

"A  corker,"  helped  out  Arkwright,  promptly; 
"  and  it  will  be,  too.  You  poor  child,  you're  worn 
out;  and  no  wonder!  But  don't  worry  another 
bit  about  the  operetta.  Now  is  there  anything 
else  I  can  do  for  you?  Anything  else  I  can  slay?  " 

Billy  laughed  tremulously. 

"  N-no,  thank  you;  not  that  you  can  —  slay,  I 
fancy,"  she  sighed.  "  That  is  —  not  that  you 
will,"  she  amended  wistfully,  with  a  sudden 
remembrance  of  the  Cause,  for  which  he  might 
do  so  much  —  if  he  only  would. 

Arkwright  bent  a  little  nearer.  His  breath 
stirred  the  loose,  curling  hair  behind  Billy's  ear. 
His  eyes  had  flashed  into  sudden  fire. 

"  But  you  don't  know  what  I'd  do  if  I  could," 
he  murmured  unsteadily.  "  If  you'd  let  me  tell 
you  —  if  you  only  knew  the  wish  that  has  lain 
closest  to  my  heart  for  —  " 

"  Miss  Neilson,  please,"  called  the  despairing 
voice  of  one  of  the  earth-bound  fairies;  "  Miss 
Neilson,  you  are  there,  aren't  you?  " 


The  Operetta  279 

'  Yes,  I'm  right  here,"  answered  Billy,  wearily. 
Arkwright  answered,  too,  but  not  aloud  —  which 
was  wise. 

"  Oh  dear!  you're  tired,  I  know,"  wailed  the 
fairy,  "  but  if  you  would  .please  come  and  help 
us  just  a  minute!  Could  you?  " 

:<  Why,  yes,  of  course."  Billy  rose  to  her  feet, 
still  wearily. 

Arkwright  touched  her  arm.  She  turned  and 
saw  his  face.  It  was  very  white  —  so  white  that 
her  eyes  widened  in  surprised  questioning. 

As  if  answering  the  unspoken  words,  the  man 
shook  his  head. 

"  I  can't,  now,  of  course,"  he  said.  "  But  there 
is  something  I  want  to  say  —  a  story  I  want  to 
tell  you  —  after  to-morrow,  perhaps.  May  I?  " 

To  Billy,  the  tremor  of  his  voice,  the  suffering 
in  his  eyes,  and  the  "  story  "  he  was  begging  to 
tell  could  have  but  one  interpretation:  Alice 
Greggory.  Her  face,  therefore,  was  a  glory  of 
tender  sympathy  as  she  reached  out  her  hand  in 
farewell. 

"  Of  course  you  may,"  she  cried.  "  Come  any 
time  after  to-morrow  night,  please,"  she  smiled 
encouragingly,  as  she  turned  toward  the  stage. 

Behind  her,  Arkwright  stumbled  twice  as  he 
walked  up  the  incline  toward  the  outer  door  — 
stumbled,  not  because  of  the  semi-darkness  of 


280  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

the  little  theatre,  but  because  of  the  blinding 
radiance  of  a  girl's  illumined  face  which  he  had,  a 
moment  before,  read  all  unknowingly  exactly 
wrong. 

A  little  more  than  twenty-four  hours  later, 
Billy  Neilson,  in  her  own  room,  drew  a  long  breath 
of  relief.  It  was  twelve  o'clock  on  the  night  of 
the  twentieth,  and  the  operetta  was  over. 

To  Billy,  life  was  eminently  worth  living  to- 
night. Her  head  did  not  ache,  her  throat  was  not 
sore,  her  shoe  did  not  hurt,  her  dress  had  been 
mended  so  successfully  by  Aunt  Hannah,  and  with 
such  comforting  celerity,  that  long  before  night 
one  would  never  have  suspected  the  filmy  thing 
had  known  the  devastating  tread  of  any  man's 
foot.  Better  yet,  the  soprano  had  sung  exactly 
to1-  key,  the  alto  had  shrieked  "  Beware! "  to 
thrilling  purpose,  Arkwright  had  shown  all  his 
old  charm  and  vim,  and  the  chorus  had  been  prod- 
igies of  joyousness  and  marvels  of  lightness.  Even 
the  lovers  had  lost  their  stiffness,  while  the  two 
earth-bound  fairies  of  the  night  before  had  found 
so  amiable  a  meeting  point  that  their  solos  sounded, 
to  the  uninitiated,  very  like,  indeed,  a  duet.  The 
operetta  was,  in  short,  a  glorious  and  gratifying 
success,  both  artistically  and  financially.  Nor  was 
this  all  that,  to  Billy,  made  life  worth  the  living: 


The  Operetta  281 

Arkwright  had  begged  permission  that  evening 
to  come  up  the  following  afternoon  to  tell  her 
his  "story";  and  Billy,  who  was  so  joyously 
confident  that  this  story  meant  the  final  crowning 
of  her  Cause  with  victory,  had  given  happy  con- 
sent. 

Bertram  was  to  come  up  in  the  evening,  and 
Billy  was  anticipating  that,  too,  particularly: 
it  had  been  so  long  since  they  had  known  a  really 
free,  comfortable  evening  together,  with  nothing 
to  interrupt.  Doubtless,  too,  after  Arkwright's 
visit  of  the  afternoon,  she  would  be  in  a  position 
to  tell  Bertram  the  story  of  the  suspended  romance 
between  Arkwright  and  Miss  Greggory,  and  per- 
haps something,  also,  of  her  own  efforts  to  bring 
the  couple  together  again.  On  the  whole,  life 
did,  indeed,  look  decidedly  worth  the  living  as 
Billy,  with  a  contented  sigh,  turned  over  to  go 
to  sleep. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

ARKWRIGHT  TELLS  ANOTHER   STORY 

PROMPTLY  at  the  suggested  hour  on  the  day 
after  the  operetta,  Arkwright  rang  Billy  Neilson's 
doorbell.  Promptly,  too,  Billy  herself  came  into 
the  living-room  to  greet  him. 

Billy  was  in  white  to-day  —  a  soft,  creamy 
white  wool  with  a  touch  of  black  velvet  at  her 
throat  and  in  her  hair.  The  man  thought  she 
had  never  looked  so  lovely:  Arkwright  was  still 
under  the  spell  wrought  by  the  soft  radiance  of 
Billy's  face  the  two  times  he  had  mentioned  his 
"  story." 

Until  the  night  before  the  operetta  Arkwright 
had  been  more  than  doubtful  of  the  way  that 
story  would  be  received,  should  he  ever  summon 
the  courage  to  tell  it.  Since  then  his  fears  had  been 
changed  to  rapturous  hopes.  It  was  very  eagerly, 
therefore,  that  he  turned  now  to  greet  Billy  as 
she  came  into  the  room. 

"  Suppose  we  don't  have  any  music  to-day. 
Suppose  we  give  the  whole  time  up  to  the  story," 
she  smiled  brightly,  as  she  held  out  her  hand. 

282 


Arkwright  Tells  Another  Story     283 

Arkwright's  heart  leaped;  but  almost  at  once 
it  throbbed  with  a  vague  uneasiness.  He  would 
have  preferred  to  see  her  blush  and  be  a  little 
shy  over  that  story.  Still  —  there  was  a  chance, 
of  course,  that  she  did  not  know  what  the  story 
was.  But  if  that  were  the  case,  what  of  the  radi- 
ance in  her  face?  What  of —  Finding  himself 
in  a  tangled  labyrinth  that  led  apparently  only 
to  disappointment  and  disaster,  Arkwright  pulled 
himself  up  with  a  firm  hand. 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  he  murmured,  as  he  re- 
linquished her  fingers  and  seated  himself  near  her. 
"  You  are  sure,  then,  that  you  wish  to  hear  the 
story?  " 

"  Very  sure,"  smiled  Billy. 

Arkwright  hesitated.  Again  he  longed  to  see 
a  little  embarrassment  in  the  bright  face  opposite. 
Suddenly  it  came  to  him,  however,  that  if  Billy 
knew  what  he  was  about  to  say,  it  would  mani- 
festly not  be  her  part  to  act  as  if  she  knew!  With 
>a  lighter  heart,  then,  he  began  his  story. 

"  You  want  it  from  the  beginning?  " 

"By  all  means!  I  never  dip  into  books,  nor 
peek  at  the  ending.  I  don't  think  it's  fair  to 
the  author." 

"  Then  I  will,  indeed,  begin  at  the  beginning,'* 
smiled  Arkwright,  "  for  I'm  specially  anxious 
that  you  shall  be  —  even  more  than  '  fair  '  to 


284  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

me."  His  voice  shook  a  little,  but  he  hurried  on. 
"There's  a  —  girl  —  in  it;  a  very  dear,  lovely 
girl." 

"Of  course  —  if  it's  a  nice  story,"  twinkled 
Billy. 

"  And  —  there's  a  man,  too.  It's  a  love  story, 
you  see." 

"  Aga'in  of  course  —  if  it's  interesting."  Billy 
laughed  mischievously,  but  she  flushed  a  little. 

"  Still,  the  man  doesn't  amount  to  much,  after 
all,  perhaps.  I  might  as  well  own  up  at  the  be- 
ginning —  I'm  the  man." 

"  That  will  do  for  you  to  say,  as  long  as  you're 
telling  the  story,"  smiled  Billy.  "  We'll  let  it 
pass  for  proper  modesty  on  your  part.  But  I 
shall  say  —  the  personal  touch  only  adds  to  the 
interest." 

Arkwright  drew  in  his  breath. 

"  We'll  hope  —  it'll  really  be  so,"  he  murmured. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Arkwright 
seemed  to  be  hesitating  what  to  say. 

"  Well?  "  prompted  Billy,  with  a  smile.  "  We 
have  the  hero  and  the  heroine ;  now  what  happens 
next?  Do  you  know,"  she  added,  "  I  have  al- 
ways thought  that  part  must  bother  the  story- 
writers  —  to  get  the  couple  to  doing  interesting 
things,  after  they'd  got  them  introduced." 

Arkwright  sighed. 


Arkwright  Tells  Another  Story     285 

"  Perhaps  —  on  paper;  but,  you  see,  my  story 
has  been  lived,  so  far.  So  it's  quite  differ- 
ent." 

'  Very  well,  then  —  what  did  happen?  "  smiled 
Billy. 

"I  was  trying  to  think  —  of  the  first  thing. 
You  see  it  began  with  a  picture,  a  photograph 
of  the  girl.  Mother  had  it.  I  saw  it,  and  wanted 
it,  and  —  "  Arkwright  had  started  to  say  "  and 
took  it."  But  he  stopped  with  the  last  two  words 
unsaid.  It  was  not  time,  yet,  he  deemed,  to  tell 
this  girl  how  much  that  picture  had  been  to  him 
for  so  many  months  past.  He  hurried  on  a  little 
precipitately.  "  You  see,  I  had  heard  about  this 
girl  a  lot;  and  I  liked —  what  I  heard." 

"You  mean  —  you  didn't  know  her  —  at  the 
first?  "  Billy's  eyes  were  surprised.  Billy  had 
supposed  that  Arkwright  had  always  known  Alice 
Greggory. 

"  No,  I  didn't  know  the  girl  —  till  afterwards. 
Before  that  I  was  always  dreaming  and  wondering 
what  she  would  be  like." 

"Oh!"  Billy  subsided  into  her  chair,  still 
with  the  puzzled  questioning  in  her  eyes. 

"  Then  I  met  her." 

"  Yes?  " 

"  And  she  was  everything  and  more  than  I  had 
pictured  her." 


286  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

"  And  you  fell  in  love  at  once?  "  Billy's  voice 
had  grown  confident  again. 

"  Oh,  I  was  already  in  love,"  sighed  Arkwright. 
"  I  simply  sank  deeper." 

"  Oh-h! "  breathed  Billy,  sympathetically. 
"  And  the  girl?  " 

"  She  didn't  care  —  or  know  • —  for  a  long  time. 
I'm  not  really  sure  she  cares  —  or  knows  —  even 
now."  Arkwright 's  eyes  were  wistfully  fixed  on 
Billy's  face. 

"  Oh,  but  you  can't  tell,  always,  about  girls," 
murmured  Billy,  hurriedly.  A  faint  pink  had 
stolen  to  her  forehead.  She  was  thinking  of  Alice 
Greggory,  and  wondering  if,  indeed,  Alice  did 
care;  and  if  she,  Billy,  might  dare  to  assure  this 
man  —  what  she  believed  to  be  true  —  that  his 
sweetheart  was  only  waiting  for  him  to  come  to 
her  and  tell  her  that  he  loved  her. 

Arkwright  saw  the  color  sweep  to  Billy's  fore- 
head, and  took  sudden  courage.  He  leaned  for- 
ward eagerly.  A  tender  light  came  to  his  eyes. 
The  expression  on  his  face  was  unmistakable. 

"  Billy,  do  you  mean,  really,  that  there  is  — 
hope  for  me?  "  he  begged  brokenly. 

Billy  gave  a  visible  start.  A  quick  something 
like  shocked  terror  came  to  her  eyes.  She  drew 
back  and  would  have  risen  to  her  feet  had  the 
thought  not  come  to  her  that  twice  before  she  had 


Arkwright  Tells  Another  Story     287 

supposed  a  man  was  making  love  to  her,  when  sub- 
sequent events  proved  that  she  had  been  mortify- 
ingly  mistaken :  once  when  Cyril  had  told  her  of 
his  love  for  Marie;  and  again  when  William  had 
asked  her  to  come  back  as  a  daughter  to  the  house 
she  had  left  desolate. 

Telling  herself  sternly  now  not  to  be  for  the  third 
time  a  "  foolish  little  simpleton,"  she  summoned 
all  her  wits,  forced  a  cheery  smile  to  her  lips, 
and  said: 

:<  Well,  really,  Mr.  Arkwright,  of  course  I 
can't  answer  for  the  girl,  so  I'm  not  the  one  to 
give  hope;  and  —  " 

"  But  you  are  the  one,"  interrupted  the  man, 
passionately.  "  You're  the  only  one!  As  if  from 
the  very  first  I  hadn't  loved  you,  and  —  " 

"  No,  no,  not  that  —  not  that!  I'm  mistaken! 
I'm  not  understanding  what  you  mean,"  pleaded 
a  horror-stricken  voice.  Billy  was  on  her  feet 
now,  holding  up  two  protesting  hands,  palms  out- 
ward. 

"Miss  Neilson,  you  don't  mean  —  that  you 
haven't  known  —  all  this  time  —  that  it  was 
you?  "  The  man,  now,  was  on  his  feet,  his  eyes 
hurt  and  unbelieving,  looking  into  hers. 

Billy  paled.  She  began  slowly  to  back  away. 
Her  eyes,  still  fixed  on  his,  carried  the  shrinking 
terror  of  one  who  sees  a  horrid  vision. 


288  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

"  But  you  know  —  you  must  know  that  I  am 

not  yours  to  win!  "  she  reproached  him  sharply. 

"  I'm  to  be  Bertram  Henshaw's  —  wife."     From 

yBilly's  shocked  young  lips  the  word  dropped  with 

i  a  ringing  force  that  was  at  once  accusatory  and 

prohibitive.     It  was  as  if,  by  the  mere  utterance 

of  the  word,  wife,  she  had  drawn  a  sacred  circle 

about  her  and  placed  herself  in  sanctuary. 

From  the  blazing  accusation  in  her  eyes 
Arkwright  fell  back. 

"  Wife!  You  are  to  be  Bertram  Henshaw's 
wife!  "  he  exclaimed.  There  was  no  mistaking 
the  amazed  incredulity  on  his  face. 

Billy  caught  her  breath.  The  righteous  indig- 
nation in  her  eyes  fled,  and  a  terrified  appeal 
took  its  place. 

"You  don't  mean  that  you  didn't  —  know?" 
she  faltered. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  A  power  quite 
outside  herself  kept  Billy's  eyes  on  Arkwright's 
face,  and  forced  her  to  watch  the  change  there 
from  unbelief  to  belief,  and  from  belief  to  set 
misery. 

"  No,  I  did  not  know,"  said  the  man  then, 
dully,  as  he  turned,  rested  his  arm  on  the  mantel 
behind  him,  and  half  shielded  his  face  with  his 
hand. 

Billy  sank  into  a  low  chair.   Her  fingers  fluttered 


Arkwright  Tells  Another  Story     280 

nervously  to  her  throat.  Her  piteous,  beseeching 
eyes  were  on  the  broad  back  and  bent  head  of 
the  man  before  her. 

"  But  I  —  I  don't  see  how  you  could  have 
helped  —  knowing,"  she  stammered  at  last.  "  I 
don't  see  how  such  a  thing  could  have  happened 
—  that  you  shouldn't  know!  " 

"  I've  been  trying  to  think,  myself,"  returned 
the  man,  still  in  a  dull,  emotionless  voice. 

"  It's  been  so  —  so  much  a  matter  of  course. 
I  supposed  everybody  knew  it,"  maintained 
Billy. 

"  Perhaps  that's  just  it  —  that  it  was  so  much 
a  matter  of  course,"  rejoined  the  man.  "  You 
see,  I  know  very  few  of  your  friends,  anyway — • 
who  would  be  apt  to  mention  it  to  me." 

"But  the  announcements  —  oh,  you  weren't 
here  then,"  moaned  Billy.  "  But  you  must  have 
known  that  —  that  he  came  here  a  good  deal  — 
that  we  were  together  so  much!  " 

"  To  a  certain  extent,  yes,"  sighed  Arkwright. 
"  But  I  took  your  friendship  with  him  and  his 
brothers  as  —  as  a  matter  of  course.  That  was 
my  '  matter  of  course,'  you  see,"  he  went  on 
bitterly.  "  I  knew  you  were  Mr.  William  Hen- 
shaw's  namesake,  and  Calderwell  had  told  me 
the  story  of  your  coming  to  them  when  you  were 
left  alone  in  the  world.  Calderwell  had  said,  too, 


290  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

that  -  '  Arkwright  paused,  then  hurried  on  a 
little  constrainedly  —  "  well,  he  said  something 
that  led  me  to  think  Mr.  Bertram  Henshaw  was 
not  a  marrying  man,  anyway." 

Billy  winced  and  changed  color.  She  had 
noticed  the  pause,  and  she  knew  very  well  what 
it  was  that  Calderwell  had  said  to  occasion  that 
pause.  Must  always  she  be  reminded  that  no  one 
expected  Bertram  Henshaw  to  love  any  girl  — 
except  to  paint? 

"  But  —  but  Mr.  Calderwell  must  know  about 
the  engagement  —  now,"  she  stammered. 

"  Very  likely,  but  I  have  not  happened  to 
hear  from  him  since  my  arrival  in  Boston.  We 
do  not  correspond." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  then  Arkwright  spoke 
again. 

"I  think  I  understand  now  —  many  things. 
I  wonder  I  did  not  see  them  before;  but  I  never 
thought  of  Bertram  Henshaw' s  being  -  If 
Calderwell  hadn't  said  — "  Again  Arkwright 
stopped  with  his  sentence  half  complete,  and  again 
Billy  winced.  "  I've  been  a  blind  fool.  I  was 
so  intent  on  my  own  —  I've  been  a  blind  fool ; 
that's  all,"  repeated  Arkwright,  with  a  break 
in  his  voice. 

Billy  tried  to  speak,  but  instead  of  words, 
there  came  only  a  choking  sob. 


Arkwright  Tells  Another  Story     291 

Arkwright  turned  sharply. 

"  Miss  Neilson,  don't  —  please,"  he  begged. 
"  There  is  no  need  that  you  should  suffer  —  too." 

"  But  I  am  so  ashamed  that  such  a  thing  could 
happen,"  she  faltered.  "I'm  sure,  some  way,  I 
must  be  to  blame.  But  I  never  thought.  I  was 
blind,  too.  I  was  wrapped  up  in  my  own  affairs. 
I  never  suspected.  I  never  even  thought  to 
suspect!  I  thought  of  course  you  knew.  It  was 
just  the  music  that  brought  us  together,  I  sup- 
posed; and  you  were  just  like  one  of  the  family, 
anyway.  I  always  thought  of  you  as  Aunt  Han- 
nah's —  "  She  stopped  with  a  vivid  blush. 

"  As  Aunt  Hannah's  niece,  Mary  Jane,  of 
course,"  supplied  Arkwright,  bitterly,  turning  back 
to  his  old  position.  "  And  that  was  my  own  fault, 
too.  My  name,  Miss  Neilson,  is  Michael  Jere- 
miah," he  went  on  wearily,  after  a  moment's 
hesitation,  his  voice  showing  his  utter  abandon- 
ment to  despair.  "  When  a  boy  at  school  I  got 
heartily  sick  of  the  '  Mike '  and  the  '  Jerry  '  and 
the  even  worse  '  Tom  and  Jerry  '  that  my  young 
friends  delighted  in;  so  as  soon  as  possible  I 
sought  obscurity  and  peace  in  '  M.  J.'  Much 
to  my  surprise  and  annoyance  the  initials  proved 
to  be  little  better,  for  they  became  at  once  the 
biggest  sort  of  whet  to  people's  curiosity.  Natu- 
rally, the  more  determined  persistent  inquirers 


292  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

were  to  know  the  name,  the  more  determined  I 
became  that  they  shouldn't.  All  very  silly  and 
very  foolish,  of  course.  Certainly  it  seems  so 
now,"  he  finished. 

Billy  was  silent.  She  was  trying  to  find  some- 
thing, anything,  to  say,  when  Arkwright  began 
speaking  again,  still  in  that  dull,  hopeless  voice 
that  Billy  thought  would  break  her  heart. 

"  As  for  the  '  Mary  Jane  '  —  that  was  another 
foolishness,  of  course.  My  small  brothers  and 
sisters  originated  it;  others  followed,  on  occasion, 
even  Calderwell.  Perhaps  you  did  not  know,  but 
he  was  the  friend  who,  by  his  laughing  question, 
1  Why  don't  you,  Mary  Jane?  '  put  into  my  head 
the  crazy  scheme  of  writing  to  Aunt  Hannah  and 
letting  her  think  I  was  a  real  Mary  Jane.  You 
see  what  I  stooped  to  do,  Miss  Neilson,  for  the 
chance  of  meeting  and  knowing  you." 

Billy  gave  a  low  cry.    She  had  suddenly  remem-  , 
bered  the  beginning  of  Arkwright's  story.     For? 
the  first  time  she  realized  that  he  had  been  talking 
then  about  herself,  not  Alice  Greggory. 

"But  you  don't  mean  that  you  —  cared  — 
that  I  was  the  —  "  She  could  not  finish. 

Arkwright  turned  from  the  mantel  with  a 
gesture  of  utter  despair. 

"  Yes,  I  cared  then.  I  had  heard  of  you.  I 
had  sung  your  songs.  I  was  determined  to  meet 


Arkwright  Tells  Another  Story     293 

you.  So  I  came  —  and  met  you.  After  that 
I  was  more  determined  than  ever  to  win  you.  Per- 
haps you  see,  now,  why  I  was  so  blind  to  —  to 
any  other  possibility.  But  it  doesn't  do  any 
l  good' —  to  talk  like  this.  I  understand  now.  Only, 
please,  don't  blame  yourself,"  he  begged  as  he 
saw  her  eyes  fill  with  tears.  The  next  moment  he 
was  gone. 

Billy  had  turned  away  and  was  crying  softly, 
so  she  did  not  see  him  go. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE  THING  THAT  WAS  THE  TRUTH 

BERTRAM  called  that  evening.  Billy  had  no 
story  now  to  tell  —  nothing  of  the  interrupted 
romance  between  Alice  Greggory  and  Arkwright. 
Billy  carefully,  indeed,  avoided  mentioning  Ark- 
wright's  name. 

Ever  since  the  man's  departure  that  afternoon, 
Billy  had  been  frantically  trying  to  assure  herself 
that  she  was  not  to  blame;  that  she  would  not 
be  supposed  to  know  he  cared  for  her;  that  it 
had  all  been  as  he  said  it  was  —  his  foolish  blind- 
ness. But  even  when  she  had  partially  comforted 
herself  by  these  assertions,  she  could  not  by  any 
means  escape  the  haunting  vision  of  the  man's 
stern-set,  suffering  face  as  she  had  seen  it  that 
afternoon;  nor  could  she  keep  from  weeping  at 
the  memory  of  the  words  he  had  said,  and  at 
the  thought  that  never  again  could  their  pleasant 
friendship  be  quite  the  same  —  if,  indeed,  there 
could  be  any  friendship  at  all  between  them. 

But  if  Billy  expected  that  her  red  eyes,  pale 

294 


The  Thing  That  Was  the  Truth     295 

cheeks,  and  generally  troubled  appearance  and 
unquiet  manner  were  to  be  passed  unnoticed  by 
her  lover's  keen  eyes  that  evening,  she  found 
herself  much  mistaken. 

"  Sweetheart,  what  is  the  matter?  "  demanded 
Bertram  resolutely,  at  last,  when  his  more  in- 
direct questions  had  been  evasively  turned  aside. 
"  You  can't  make  me  think  there  isn't  something 
the  trouble,  because  I  know  there  is!  " 

"  Well,  then,  there  is,  dear,"  smiled  Billy, 
tearfully;  "but  please  just  don't  let  us  talk  of 
it.  I  —  I  want  to  forget  it.  Truly  I  do." 

"  But  I  want  to  know  so  I  can  forget  it,"  per- 
sisted Bertram.  "  What  is  it?  Maybe  I  could 
help." 

She  shook  her  head  with  a  little  frightened 
cry. 

"  No,  no  —  you  can't  help  —  really." 

"  But,  sweetheart,  you  don't  know.  Perhaps 
I  could.  Won't  you  tell  me  about  it?  " 

Billy  looked  distressed. 

"I  can't,  dear  —  truly.  You  see,  it  isn't 
quite  mine  —  to  tell." 

"  Not  yours!" 

"  Not  —  entirely." 

"  But  it  makes  you  feel  bad?  " 

"Yes  — very." 

"  Then  can't  I  know  that  part?  " 


296  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

"Oh,  no  —  no,  indeed,  no!  You  see  —  it 
wouldn't  be  fair  —  to  the  other." 

Bertram  stared  a  little.  Then  his  mouth  set 
into  stern  lines. 

"  Billy,  what  are  you  talking  about?  Seems 
to  me  I  have  a  right  to  know." 

Billy  hesitated.  To  her  mind,  a  girl  who  would 
tell  of  the  unrequited  love  of  a  man  for  herself, 
was  unspeakably  base.  To  tell  Bertram  Ark- 
wright's  love  story  was  therefore  impossible. 
Yet,  in  some  way,  she  must  set  Bertram's  mind 
at  rest. 

"  Dearest,"  she  began  slowly,  her  eyes  wistfully 
pleading,  "  just  what  it  is,  I  can't  tell  you.  In 
a  way  it's  another's  secret,  and  I  don't  feel  that 
I  have  the  right  to  tell  it.  It's  just  something 
that  I  learned  this  afternoon." 

"  But  it  has  made  you  cry!  " 

"  Yes.    It  made  me  feel  very  unhappy." 

"  Then  —  it  was  something  you  couldn't  help?  " 

To  Bertram's  surprise,  the  face  he  was  watching 
so  intently  flushed  scarlet. 

"No,  I  couldn't  help  it  —  now;  though  I 
might  have  —  once."  Billy  spoke  this  last  just 
above  her  breath.  Then  she  went  on,  beseechingly : 
"  Bertram,  please,  please  don't  talk  of  it  any  more. 
It  —  it's  just  spoiling  our  happy  evening  to- 
gether! " 


The  Thing  That  Was  the  Truth     297 

Bertram  bit  his  lip,  and  drew  a  long  sigh. 

"All  right,  dear;  you  know  best,  of  course  — 
since  I  don't  know  anything  about  it,"  he  finished 
a  little  stiffly. 

Billy  began  to  talk  then  very  brightly  of  Aunt 
Hannah  and  her  shawls,  and  of  a  visit  she  had 
made  to  Cyril  and  Marie  that  morning. 

"  And,  do  you  know?  Aunt  Hannah's  clock 
has  done  a  good  turn,  at  last,  and  justified  its 
existence.  Listen,"  she  cried  gayly.  "  Marie 
had  a  letter  from  her  mother's  Cousin  Jane. 
Cousin  Jane  couldn't  sleep  nights,  because  she 
was  always  lying  awake  to  find  out  just  what  time 
it  was;  so  Marie  had  written  her  about  Aunt 
Hannah's  clock.  And  now  this  Cousin  Jane  has 
fixed  her  clock,  and  she  sleeps  like  a  top,  just  be- 
cause she  knows  there'll  never  be  but  half  an  hour 
that  she  doesn't  know  what  time  it  is!  " 

Bertram  smiled,  and  murmured  a  polite  "  Well, 
I'm  sure  that's  fine!";  but  the  words  were 
plainly  abstracted,  and  the  frown  had  not  left 
his  brow.  Nor  did  it  quite  leave  till  some  time 
later,  when  Billy,  in  answer  to  a  question  of  his 
about  another  operetta,  cried,  with  a  shudder: 

"  Mercy,  I  hope  not,  dear!  I  don't  want  to 
hear  the  word  '  operetta  '  again  for  a  year!  " 

Bertram  smiled,  then,  broadly.  He,  too, 
would  be  quite  satisfied  not  to  hear  the  word 


298  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

"  operetta  "  for  a  year.  Operetta,  to  Bertram, 
meant  interruptions,  interferences,  and  the  con- 
stant presence  of  Arkwright,  the  Greggorys, 
and  innumerable  creatures  who  wished  to  re- 
hearse or  to  change  wigs  —  all  of  which  Bertram 
abhorred.  No  wonder,  therefore,  that  he  smiled, 
and  that  the  frown  disappeared  from  his  brow. 
He  thought  he  saw,  ahead,  serene,  blissful  days 
for  Billy  and  himself. 

As  the  days,  however,  began  to  pass,  one  by 
one,  Bertram  Henshaw  found  them  to  be  anything 
but  serene  and  blissful.  The  operetta,  with  its 
rehearsals  and  its  interruptions,  was  gone,  cer- 
tainly; but  he  was  becoming  seriously  troubled 
about  Billy. 

Billy  did  not  act  natural.  Sometimes  she 
seemed  like  her  old  self;  and  he  breathed  more 
freely,  telling  himself  that  his  fears  were  ground- 
less. Then  would  come  the  haunting  shadow  to 
her  eyes,  the  droop  to  her  mouth,  and  the  nervous- 
ness to  her  manner  that  he  so  dreaded.  Worse 
yet,  all  this  seemed  to  be  connected  in  some  strange 
way  with  Arkwright.  He  found  this  out  by  ac- 
cident one  day.  She  had  been  talking  and  laugh- 
ing brightly  about  something,  when  he  chanced 
to  introduce  Arkwright's  name. 

"  By  the  way,  where  is  Mary  Jane  these  days?  " 
he  asked  then. 


The  Thing  That  Was  the  Truth     299 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure.  He  hasn't  been  here 
lately,"  murmured  Billy,  reaching  for  a  book  on 
the  table. 

At  a  peculiar  something  in  her  voice,  he  had 
looked  up  quickly,  only  to  find,  to  his  great  sur- 
prise, that  her  face  showed  a  painful  flush  as  she 
bent  over  the  book  in  her  hand. 

He  had  said  nothing  more  at  the  time,  but  he 
had  not  forgotten.  Several  times,  after  that,  he 
had  introduced  the  man's  name,  and  never  had 
it  failed  to  bring  a  rush  of  color,  a  biting  of  the 
lip,  or  a  quick  change  of  position  followed  always  by 
the  troubled  eyes  and  nervous  manner  that  he  had 
learned  to  dread.  He  noticed  then  that  never,  of 
her  own  free  will,  did  she  herself  mention  the  man ; 
never  did  she  speak  of  him  with  the  old  frank 
lightness  as  "  Mary  Jane." 

By  casual  questions  asked  from  time  to  time, 
Bertram  had  learned  that  Arkwright  never  came 
there  now,  and  that  the  song-writing  together 
had  been  given  up.  Curiously  enough,  this 
discovery,  which  would  once  have  filled  Bertram 
with  joy,  served  now  only  to  deepen  his  distress. 
That  there  was  anything  inconsistent  in  the  fact 
that  he  was  more  frightened  now  at  the  man's 
absence  than  he  had  been  before  at  his  presence, 
did  not  occur  to  him.  He  knew  only  that  he  was 
frightened,  and  badly  frightened. 


300  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

Bertram  had  not  forgotten  the  evening  after 
the  operetta,  and  Billy's  tear-stained  face  on 
that  occasion.  He  dated  the  whole  thing,  in  fact, 
from  that  evening.  He  fell  to  wondering  one  day 
if  that,  too,  had  anything  to  do  with  Arkwright. 
He  determined  then  to  find  out.  Shamelessly  — 
for  the  good  of  the  cause  —  he  set  a  trap  for 
Billy's  unwary  feet. 

Very  adroitly  one  day  he  led  the  talk  straight 
to  Arkwright ;  then  he  asked  abruptly  : 

"  Where  is  the  chap,  I  wonder!  Why,  he  hasn't 
shown  up  once  since  the  operetta,  has  he?  " 

Billy,  always  truthful,  —  and  just  now  always 
embarrassed  when  Arkwright 's  name  was  men' 
tioned,  —  walked  straight  into  the  trap. 

"Oh,  yes;  well,  he  was  here  once  —  the  day 
after  the  operetta.  I  haven't  seen  him  since." 

Bertram  answered  a  light  something,  but  his 
face  grew  a  little  white.  Now  that  the  trap  had 
been  sprung  and  the  victim  caught,  he  almost 
wished  that  he  had  not  set  any  trap  at  all. 

He  knew  now  it  was  true.  Arkwright  had  been 
with  Billy  the  day  after  the  operetta,  and  her 
tears  and  her  distress  that  evening  had  been  caused 
by  something  Arkwright  had  said.  It  was  Ark- 
wright's  secret  that  she  could  not  tell.  It  was 
Arkwright  to  whom  she  must  be  fair.  It  was  Ark- 
wright's  sorrow  that  she  "  could  not  help  —  now." 


The  Thing  That  Was  the  Truth     301 

Naturally,  with  these  tools  in  his  hands,  and 
aided  by  days  of  brooding  and  nights  of  sleepless- 
ness, it  did  not  take  Bertram  long  to  fashion  The 
Thing  that  finally  loomed  before  him  as  The  Truth. 

He  understood  it  all  now.  Music  had  conquered. 
Billy  and  Arkwright  had  found  that  they  loved 
each  other.  On  the  day  after  the  operetta,  they 
had  met,  and  had  had  some  sort  of  scene  together 
—  doubtless  Arkwright  had  declared  his  love. 
That  was  the  "  secret  "  that  Billy  could  not  tell 
and  be  "fair."  Billy,  of  course,  —  loyal  little 
soul  that  she  was,  —  had  sent  him  away  at  once. 
Was  her  hand  not  already  pledged?  That  was 
why  she  could  not  "  help  it  —  now."  (Bertram 
writhed  in  agony  at  the  thought.)  Since  that 
meeting  Arkwright  had  not  been  near  the  house. 
Billy  had  found,  however,  that  her  heart  had  gone 
with  Arkwright;  hence  the  shadow  in  her  eyes, 
the  nervousness  in  her  manner,  and  the  embarrass- 
ment that  she  always  showed  at  the  mention  of 
his  name. 

That  Billy  was  still  outwardly  loyal  to  himself, 
and  that  she  still  kept  to  her  engagement,  did 
not  surprise  Bertram  in  the  least.  That  was  like 
Billy.  Bertram  had  not  forgotten  how,  less  than 
a  year  before,  this  same  Billy  had  held  herself 
loyal  and  true  to  an  engagement  with  William, 
because  a  wretched  mistake  all  around  had  caused 


302  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

her  to  give  her  promise  to  be  William's  wife  under 
the  impression  that  she  was  carrying  out  William's 
dearest  wish.  Bertram  remembered  her  face  as 
it  had  looked  all  those  long  summer  days  while 
her  heart  was  being  slowly  broken ;  and  he  thought 
he  could  see  that  same  look  in  her  eyes  now.  All 
of  which  only  goes  to  prove  with  what  woeful 
skill  Bertram  had  fashioned  this  Thing  that  was 
looming  before  him  as  The  Truth. 

The  exhibition  of  "  The  Bohemian  Ten  "  was 
to  open  with  a  private  view  on  the  evening  of 
the  twentieth  of  March.  Bertram  Henshaw's 
one  contribution  was  to  be  his  portrait  of  Miss 
Marguerite  Winthrop  —  the  piece  of  work  that 
had  come  to  mean  so  much  to  him;  the  piece 
of  work  upon  which  already  he  felt  the  focus  of 
multitudes  of  eyes. 

Miss  Winthrop  was  in  Boston  now,  and  it  was 
during  these  early  March  days  that  Bertram  was 
supposed  to  be  putting  in  his  best  work  on  the 
portrait;  but,  unfortunately,  it  was  during  these 
same  early  March  days  that  he  was  engaged,  also, 
in  fashioning  The  Thing  —  and  the  two  did  not 
harmonize. 

The  Thing,  indeed,  was  a  jealous  creature, 
and  would  brook  no  rival.  She  filled  his  eyes 
with  horrid  visions,  and  his  brain  with  sickening 
thoughts.  Between  him  and  his  model  she  flung 


The  Thing  That  Was  the  Truth     303 

a  veil  of  fear;  and  she  set  his  hand  to  trembling, 
and  his  brush  to  making  blunders  with  the  paints 
on  his  palette. 

Bertram  saw  The  Thing,  and  saw,  too,  the 
grievous  result  of  her  presence.  Despairingly 
he  fought  against  her  and  her  work;  but  The 
Thing  had  become  full  grown  now,  and  was  The 
Truth.  Hence  she  was  not  to  be  banished.  She 
even,  in  a  taunting  way,  seemed  sometimes  to 
be  justifying  her  presence,  for  she  reminded  him: 

"  After  all,  what's  the  difference?  What  do 
you  care  for  this,  or  anything  again  • —  if  Billy 
is  lost  to  you?  " 

But  the  artist  told  himself  fiercely  that  he  did 
care  —  that  he  must  care  —  for  his  work ;  and 
he  struggled  —  how  he  struggled!  —  to  ignore 
the  horrid  visions  and  the  sickening  thoughts, 
and  to  pierce  the  veil  of  fear  so  that  his  hand 
might  be  steady  and  his  brush  regain  its  skill. 

And  so  he  worked.  Sometimes  he  let  his  work 
remain.  Sometimes  one  hour  saw  only  the  erasing 
of  what  the  hour  before  had  wrought.  Sometimes 
the  elusive  something  in  Marguerite  Winthrop's 
face  seemed  right  at  the  tip  of  his  brush  —  on  the 
canvas,  even.  He  saw  success  then  so  plainly 
that  for  a  moment  it  almost  —  but  not  quite  — 
blotted  out  The  Thing.  At  other  times  that 
elusive  something  on  the  high-bred  face  of  his 


304  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

model  was  a  veritable  will-o'-the-wisp,  refusing  to 
be  caught  and  held,  even  in  his  eye.  The  artist 
knew  then  that  his  picture  would  be  hung  with 
Anderson's  and  Fullam's. 

But  the  portrait  was,  irrefutably,  nearing 
completion,  and  it  was  to  be  exhibited  the  twen- 
tieth of  the  month.  Bertram  knew  these  for 
facts. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

BILLY  TAKES  HER  TURN 

IF  for  Billy  those  first  twenty  days  of  March 
did  not  carry  quite  the  tragedy  they  contained 
for  Bertram,  they  were,  nevertheless,  not  really 
happy  ones.  She  was  vaguely  troubled  by  a 
curious  something  in  Bertram's  behavior  that 
she  could  not  name;  she  was  grieved  over  Ark- 
wright's  sorrow,  and  she  was  constantly  probing 
her  own  past  conduct  to  see  if  anywhere  she  could 
find  that  she  was  to  blame  for  that  sorrow.  She 
missed,  too,  undeniably,  Arkwright's  cheery  pres- 
ence, and  the  charm  and  inspiration  of  his  music. 
Nor  was  she  finding  it  easy  to  give  satisfactory 
answers  to  the  questions  Aunt  Hannah,  William, 
and  Bertram  so  often  asked  her  as  to  where  Mary 
Jane  was. 

Even  her  music  was  little  comfort  to  her  these 
days.  She  was  not  writing  anything.  There 
was  no  song  in  her  heart  to  tempt  her  to  write. 
Arkwright's  new  words  that  he  had  brought  her 
were  out  of  the  question,  of  course.  They  had 

305 


306  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

been  put  away  with  the  manuscript  of  the  com- 
pleted song,  which  had  not,  fortunately,  gone  to 
the  publishers.  Billy  had  waited,  intending  to 
send  them  together.  She  was  so  glad,  now,  that 
she  had  waited.  Just  once,  since  Arkwright's 
last  call,  she  had  tried  to  sing  that  song.  But 
she  had  stopped  at  the  end  of  the  first  two  lines. 
The  full  meaning  of  those  words,  as  coming  from 
Arkwright,  had  swept  over  her  then,  and  she 
had  snatched  up  the  manuscript  and  hidden  it 
under  the  bottom  pile  of  music  in  her  cabinet 
.  .  .  And  she  had  presumed  to  sing  that  love  song 
to  Bertram! 

Arkwright  had  written  Billy  once  —  a  kind, 
courteous,  manly  note  that  had  made  her  cry.  He 
had  begged  her  again  not  to  blame  herself,  and  he 
had  said  that  he  hoped  he  should  be  strong 
enough  sometime  to  wish  to  call  occasionally  — • 
if  she  were  willing  —  and  renew  their  pleasant 
hours  with  their  music;  but,  for  the  present,  he 
knew  there  was  nothing  for  him  to  do  but  to  stay 
away.  He  had  signed  himself  "  Michael  Jeremiah 
'Arkwright";  and  to  Billy  that  was  the  most 
pathetic  thing  in  the  letter  —  it  sounded  so  hope- 
less and  dreary  to  one  who  knew  the  jaunty 
"  M.  J." 

Alice  Greggory,  Billy  saw  frequently.  Billy 
and  Aunt  Hannah  were  great  friends  with  the 


Billy  Takes  Her  Turn  307 

Greggorys  now,  and  had  been  ever  since  the 
Greggorys'  ten-days'  visit  at  Hillside.  The  cheery 
little  cripple,  with  the  gentle  tap,  tap,  tap  of  her 
crutches,  had  won  everybody's  heart  the  very 
first  day ;  and  Alice  was  scarcely  less  of  a  favorite, 
after  the  sunny  friendliness  of  Hillside  had  thawed 
her  stiff  reserve  into  naturalness. 

Billy  had  little  to  say  to  Alice  Greggory  of 
Arkwright.  Billy  was  no  longer  trying  to  play 
Cupid's  assistant.  The  Cause,  for  which  she 
had  so  valiantly  worked,  had  been  felled  by  Ark- 
wright's  own  hand  —  but  that  there  were  still 
some  faint  stirrings  of  life  in  it  was  evidenced  by 
Billy's  secret  delight  when  one  day  Alice  Greggory 
chanced  to  mention  that  Arkwright  had  called 
the  night  before  upon  her  and  her  mother. 

"  He  brought  us  news  of  our  old  home,"  she 
explained  a  little  hurriedly,  to  Billy.  "  He  had 
heard  from  his  mother,  and  he  thought  some 
things  she  said  would  be  interesting  to  us." 

"  Of  course,"  murmured  Billy,  carefully  ex- 
cluding from  her  voice  any  hint  of  the  delight  she 
felt,  but  hoping,  all  the  while,  that  Alice  would 
continue  the  subject. 

Alice,  however,  had  nothing  more  to  say;  and 
Billy  was  left  in  entire  ignorance  of  what  the  news 
was  that  Arkwright  had  brought.  She  suspected, 
though,  that  it  had  something  to  do  with  Alice's 


308  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

father  —  certainly  she  hoped  that  it  had ;  for 
if  Arkwright  had  called  to  tell  it,  it  must  be  good. 

Billy  had  found  a  new  home  for  the  Greggorys; 
although  at  first  they  had  drawn  sensitively  back, 
and  had  said  that  they  preferred  to  remain  where 
they  were,  they  had  later  gratefully  accepted  it. 
A  little  couple  from  South  Boston,  to  whom  Billy 
had  given  a  two  weeks'  outing  the  summer  before, 
had  moved  into  town  and  taken  a  flat  in  the  South 
End.  They  had  two  extra  rooms  which  they  had 
told  Billy  they  would  like  to  let  for  light  house- 
keeping, if  only  they  knew  just  the  right  people 
to  take  into  such  close  quarters  with  themselves. 
Billy  at  once  thought  of  the  Greggorys,  and  spoke 
of  them.  The  little  couple  were  delighted,  and 
the  Greggorys  were  scarcely  less  so  when  they 
at  last  became  convinced  that  only  a  very  little 
more  money  than  they  were  already  paying 
would  give  themselves  a  much  pleasanter  home, 
and  would  at  the  same  time  be  a  real  boon  to  two 
young  people  who  were  trying  to  meet  expenses. 
So  the  change  was  made,  and  general  happiness 
all  round  had  resulted  —  so  much  so,  that  Bertram 
had  said  to  Billy,  when  he  heard  of  it : 

"  It  looks  as  if  this  was  a  case  where  your  cake 
is  frosted  on  both  sides." 

"  Nonsense !  This  isn't  frosting  —  it's  business," 
Billy  had  laughed. 


Billy  Takes  Her  Turn 


"  And  the  new  pupils  you  have  found  for  Miss 
Alice  —  they're  business,  too,  I  suppose?  " 

"  Certainly,"  retorted  Billy,  with  decision. 
Then  she  had  given  a  low  laugh  and  said :  "  Mercy ! 
If  Alice  Greggory  thought  it  was  anything  but 
business,  I  verily  believe  she  would  refuse  e very- 
one  of  the  new  pupils,  and  begin  to-night  to  carry 
back  the  tables  and  chairs  herself  to  those  wretched 
rooms  she  left  last  month!  " 

Bertram  had  smiled,  but  the  smile  had  been 
a  fleeting  one,  and  the  brooding  look  of  gloom  that 
Billy  had  noticed  so  frequently,  of  late,  had  come 
back  to  his  eyes. 

Billy  was  not  a  little  disturbed  over  Bertram 
these  days.  He  did  not  seem  to  be  his  natural, 
cheery  self  at  all.  He  talked  little,  and  what  he 
did  say  seldom  showed  a  trace  of  his  usually 
whimsical  way  of  putting  things.  He  was  kind- 
ness itself  to  her,  and  seemed  particularly  anxious 
to  please  her  in  every  way;  but  she  frequently 
found  his  eyes  fixed  on  her  with  a  sombre  question- 
ing that  almost  frightened  her.  The  more  she 
thought  of  it,  the  more  she  wondered  what  the 
question  was,  that  he  did  not  dare  to  ask;  and 
whether  it  was  of  herself  or  himself  that  he  would 
ask  it  —  if  he  did  dare.  Then,  with  benumbing 
force,  one  day,  a  possible  solution  of  the  mystery 
came  to  her:  he  had  found  out  that  it  was  true 


310  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

(what  all  his  friends  had  declared  of  him)  —  he 
did  not  really  love  any  girl,  except  to  paint! 

The  minute  this  thought  came  to  her,  Billy 
thrust  it  indignantly  away.  It  was  disloyal  to 
Bertram  and  unworthy  of  herself,  even  to  think 
such  a  thing.  She  told  herself  then  that  it  was  ' 
only  the  portrait  of  Miss  Winthrop  that  was 
troubling  him.  She  knew  that  he  was  worried 
over  that.  He  had  confessed  to  her  that  actually 
sometimes  he  was  beginning  to  fear  his  hand  had 
lost  its  cunning.  As  if  that  were  not  enough  to 
bring  the  gloom  to  any  man's  face  —  to  any 
artist's! 

No  sooner,  however,  had  Billy  arrived  at  this 
point  in  her  mental  argument,  than. a  new  element 
entered  —  her  old  lurking  jealousy,  of  which  she 
was  heartily  ashamed,  but  which  she  had  never 
yet  been  able  quite  to  subdue;  her  jealousy  of 
the  beautiful  girl  with  the  beautiful  name  (not 
Billy),  whose  portrait  had  needed  so  much  time 
and  so  many  sittings  to  finish.  What  if  Bertram  * 
had  found  that  he  loved  her?  What  if  that  were 
why  his  hand  had  lost  its  cunning  —  because, 
though  loving  her,  he  realized  that  he  was  bound 
to  another,  Billy  herself? 

This  thought,  too,  Billy  cast  from  her  at  once  as 
again  disloyal  and  unworthy.  But  both  thoughts, 
having  once  entered  her  brain,  had  made  for  them- 


Billy  Takes  Her  Turn  311 

selves  roads  over  which  the  second  passing  was 
much  easier  than  the  first  —  as  Billy  found  to 
her  sorrow.  Certainly,  as  the  days  went  by, 
and  as  Bertram's  face  and  manner  became  more 
and  more  a  tragedy  of  suffering,  Billy  found  it 
increasingly  difficult  to  keep  those  thoughts 
from  wearing  their  roads  of  suspicion  into  horrid 
deep  ruts  of  certainty. 

Only  with  William  and  Marie,  now,  could  Billy 
escape  from  it  all.  With  William  she  sought 
new  curios  and  catalogued  the  old.  With  Marie 
she  beat  eggs  and  whipped  cream  in  the  shining 
kitchen,  and  tried  to  think  that  nothing  in  the 
world  mattered  except  that  the  cake  in  the  oven 
should  not  fall. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

KATE  WRITES  A  LETTER 

BERTRAM  feared  that  he  knew,  before  the  por- 
trait was  hung,  that  it  was  a  failure.  He  was  sure 
that  he  knew  it  on  the  evening  of  the  twentieth 
when  he  encountered  the  swiftly  averted  eyes 
of  some  of  his  artist  friends,  and  saw  the  per- 
plexed frown  on  the  faces  of  others.  But  he  knew, 
afterwards,  that  he  did  not  really  know  -it  —  till 
he  read  the  newspapers  during  the  next  few  days. 

There  was  praise  —  oh,  yes;  the  faint  praise 
that  kills.  There  was  some  adverse  criticism, 
too;  but  it  was  of  the  light,  insincere  variety  that  ^ 
is  given  to  mediocre  work  by  unimportant  art-, 
ists.  Then,  here  and  there,  appeared  the  signed 
critiques  of  the  men  whose  opinion  counted  — 
and  Bertram  knew  that  he  had  failed.  Neither 
as  a  work  of  art,  nor  as  a  likeness,  was  the  portrait 
the  success  that  Henshaw's  former  work  would 
seem  to  indicate  that  it  should  have  been.  Indeed, 
as  one  caustic  pen  put  it,  if  this  were  to  be  taken 

312 


Kate  Writes  a  Letter  313? 

as  a  sample  of  what  was  to  follow  —  then  the 
famous  originator  of  "  The  Face  of  a  Girl  "  had 
"  a  most  distinguished  future  behind  him." 

Seldom,  if  ever  before,  had  an  exhibited  por- 
trait attracted  so  much  attention.  As  Bertram 
had  said,  uncounted  eyes  were  watching  for  it 
before  it  was  hung,  because  it  was  a  portrait  of 
the  noted  beauty,  Marguerite  Winthrop,  and  be- 
cause two  other  well-known  artists  had  failed 
where  he,  Bertram  Henshaw,  was  hoping  to  suc- 
ceed. After  it  was  hung,  and  the  uncounted  eyes 
had  seen  it  —  either  literally,  or  through  the  eyes 
of  the  critics  — •  interest  seemed  rather  to  grow 
than  to  lessen,  for  other  uncounted  eyes  wanted 
to  see  what  all  the  fuss  was  about,  anyway.  And 
when  these  eyes  had  seen,  their  owners  talked. 
Nor  did  they,  by  any  means,  all  talk  against  the 
portrait.  Some  were  as  loud  in  its  praise  as  were 
others  in  its  condemnation;  all  of  which,  of 
course,  but  helped  to  attract  more  eyes  to  the 
cause  of  it  all. 

For  Bertram  and  his  friends  these  days  were, 
naturally,  trying  ones.  William  finally  dreaded 
to  open  his  newspaper.  (It  had  become  the  fash- 
ion, when  murders  and  divorces  were  scarce,  oc- 
casionally to  "  feature  "  somebody's  opinion  of  the 
Henshaw  portrait,  on  the  first  page  —  something 
that  had  almost  never  been  known  to  happen  be- 


314  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

fore.)  Cyril,  according  to  Marie,  played  "  perfectly 
awful  things  on  his  piano  every  day,  now."  Aunt 
Hannah  had  said  "  Oh,  my  grief  and  conscience!  " 
so  many  times  that  it  melted  now  into  a  wordless 
groan  whenever  a  new  unfriendly  criticism  of  the 
portrait  met  her  indignant  eyes. 

Of  all  Bertram's  friends,  Billy,  perhaps  not 
unnaturally,  was  the  angriest.  Not  only  did  she, 
after  a  time,  refuse  to  read  the  papers,  but  she 
refused  even  to  allow  certain  ones  to  be  brought 
into  the  house,  foolish  and  unreasonable  as  she 
knew  this  to  be. 

As  to  the  artist  himself,  Bertram's  face  showed 
drawn  lines  and  his  eyes  sombre  shadows,  but  his 
words  and  manner  carried  a  stolid  indifference 
that  to  Billy  was  at  once  heartbreaking  and  mad- 
dening. 

"  But,  Bertram,  why  don't  you  do  something? 
Why  don't  you  say  something?  Why  don't  you 
act  something?  "  she  burst  out  one  day. 

The  artist  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  But,  my  dear,  what  can  I  say,  or  do,  or  act?  " 
he  asked. 

"  I  don't  know,  of  course,"  sighed  Billy.  "  But 
I  know  what  I'd  like  to  do.  I  should  like  to  go 
out  and  —  fight  somebody!  " 

So  fierce  were  words  and  manner,  coupled  as 
they  were  with  a  pair  of  gentle  eyes  ablaze  and 


Kate  Writes  a  Letter  315 

two  soft  little  hands  doubled  into  menacing  fists, 
that  Bertram  laughed. 

:<  What  a  fiery  little  champion  it  is,  to  be  sure," 
he  said  tenderly.    "  But  as  if  fighting  could  do  any  i 
good  —  in  this  case!  " 

Billy's  tense  muscles  relaxed.  Her  eyes  filled 
with  tears. 

"  No,  I  don't  suppose  it  would,"  she  choked, 
beginning  to  cry,  so  that  Bertram  had  to  turn 
comforter. 

"  Come,  come,  dear,"  he  begged;  "  don't  take 
it  so  to  heart.  It's  not  so  bad,  after  all.  I've 
still  my  good  right  hand  left,  and  we'll  hope 
there's  something  in  it  yet  —  that'll  be  worth 
while." 

"  But  this  one  isn't  bad,"  stormed  Billy.  "  It's 
splendid!  I'm  sure,  I  think  it's  a  b-beautiful 
portrait,  and  I  don't  see  what  people  mean  by 
talking  so  about  it!  " 

Bertram  shook  his  head.  His  eyes  grew  sombre 
again. 

"Thank  you,  dear.  But  I  know  —  and  you 
know,  really  —  that  it  isn't  a  splendid  portrait. 
I've  done  lots  better  work  than  that." 

"  Then  why  don't  they  look  at  those,  and  let 
this  alone?  "  wailed  Billy,  with  indignation. 

"  Because  I  deliberately  put  up  this  for  them  to 
see,"  smiled  the  artist,  wearily. 


316  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

Billy  sighed,  and  twisted  in  her  chair. 

"  What  does  —  Mr.  Winthrop  say?  "  she  asked 
at  last,  in  a  faint  voice. 
{     Bertram  lifted  his  head. 

"  Mr.  Winthrop's  been  a  trump  all  through, 
dear.  He's  already  insisted  on  paying  for  this  — 
and  he's  ordered  another." 

"Another!" 

"  Yes.  The  old  fellow  never  minces  his  words, 
as  you  may  know.  He  came  to  me  one  day,  put 
his  hand  on  my  shoulder,  and  said  tersely:  '  Will 
you  give  me  another,  same  terms?  Go  in,  boy, 
and  win.  Show  'em !  I  lost  the  first  ten  thousand 
I  made.  I  didn't  the  next! '  That's  all  he  said. 
Before  I  could  even  choke  out  an  answer  he  was 
gone.  Gorry!  talk  about  his  having  a  '  heart 
of  stone  ' !  I  don't  believe  another  man  in  the 
country  would  have  done  that  —  and  done  it  in 
the  way  he  did  —  in  the  face  of  all  this  talk," 
finished  Bertram,  his  eyes  luminous  with  feeling. 

Billy  hesitated. 

"Perhaps  —  his  daughter  —  influenced  him  — 
some." 

"  Perhaps,"  nodded  Bertram.  "  She,  too,  has 
been  very  kind,  all  the  way  through." 

Billy  hesitated  again. 

"  But  I  thought  —  it  was  going  so  splendidly,*' 
faltered,  in  a  half -stifled  voice. 


Kate  Writes  a  Letter  317 

"  So  it  was  —  at  the  first." 
'  Then  what  —  ailed  it,  at  the  last,  do  you  sup- 
pose? "      Billy  was  holding   her  breath   till   he 
should  answer. 

The  man  got  to  his  feet. 

"Billy,  don't  —  don't  ask  me,"  he  begged. 
"  Please  don't  let's  talk  of  it  any  more.  It  can't 
do  any  good!  I  just  flunked  —  that's  all.  My 
hand  failed  me.  Maybe  I  tried  too  hard.  Maybe 
I  was  tired.  Maybe  something  —  troubled  me. 
Never  mind,  dear,  what  it  was.  It  can  do  no- 
good  even  to  think  of  that  —  now.  So  just  let's 
—  drop  it,  please,  dear,"  he  finished,  his  face  work- 
ing with  emotion. 

And  Billy  dropped  it  —  so  far  as  words  were 
concerned;  but  she  could  not  drop  it  from  her 
thoughts  —  specially  after  Kate's  letter  came. 

Kate's  letter  was  addressed  to  Billy,  and  it  said, 
after  speaking  of  various  other  matters : 

"  And  now  about  poor  Bertram's  failure." 
(Billy  frowned.  In  Billy's  presence  no  one  was  al- 
lowed to  say  "Bertram's  failure";  but  a  letter 
has  a  most  annoying  privilege  of  saying  what  it 
pleases  without  let  or  hindrance,  unless  one  tears 
it  up  —  and  a  letter  destroyed  unread  remains  al- 
ways such  a  tantalizing  mystery  of  possibilities! 
So  Billy  let  the  letter  talk.)  "  Of  course  we  have 
heard  of  it  away  out  here.  I  do  wish  if  Bertram 


318  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

must  paint  such  famous  people,  he  would  manage 
to  natter  them  up  —  in  the  painting,  I  mean,  of 
course  —  enough  so  that  it  might  pass  for  a  suc- 
cess! 

"  The  technical  part  of  all  this  criticism  I  don't 
pretend  to  understand  in  the  least ;  but  from  what 

I  hear  and  read,  he  must,  indeed,  have  made  a 
terrible  mess  of  it,  and  of  course  I'm  very  sorry 
—  and  some  surprised,  too,  for  usually  he  paints 
such  pretty  pictures! 

"  Still,  on  the  other  hand,  Billy,  I'm  not  sur- 
prised. William  says  that  Bertram  has  been  com- 
pletely out  of  fix  over  something,  and  as  gloomy 
as  an  owl,  for  weeks  past;  and  of  course,  under 
those  circumstances,  the  poor  boy  could  not  be 
expected  to  do  good  work.  Now  William,  being  a 
man,  is  not  supposed  to  understand  what  the 
trouble  is.  But  I,  being  a  woman,  can  see  through 
a  pane  of  glass  when  it's  held  right  up  before  me; 
and  I  can  guess,  of  course,  that  a  woman  is  at  the 
bottom  of  it  —  she  always  is !  —  and  that  you, 
being  his  special  fancy  at  the  moment  "  (Billy 
almost  did  tear  the  letter  now  —  but  not  quite), 

II  are  that  woman. 

"  Now,  Billy,  you  don't  like  such  frank  talk,  of 
course;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  I  know  you  do  not 
want  to  ruin  the  dear  boy's  career.  So,  for  heav- 
en's sake,  if  you  two  have  been  having  one  of  those 


Kate  Writes  a  Letter  319 

quarrels  that  lovers  so  delight  in  —  do,  please,  for 
the  good  of  the  cause,  make  up  quick,  or  else  quar- 
rel harder  and  break  it  off  entirely  —  which,  hon- 
estly, would  be  the  better  way,  I  think,  all  around. 
'  There,  there,  my  dear  child,  don't  bristle  up ! 
I  am  very  fond  of  you,  and  would  dearly  love  to 
have  you  for  a  sister  —  if  you'd  only  take  William, 
as  you  should !  But,  as  you  very  well  know,  I  never 
did  approve  of  this  last  match  at  all,  for  either  of 
your  sakes. 

"  He  can't  make  you  happy,  my  dear,  and  you 
can't  make  him  happy.  Bertram  never  was  — 
and  never  will  be  —  a  marrying  man.  He's  too 
temperamental  —  too  thoroughly  wrapped  up  in 
his  Art.  Girls  have  never  meant  anything  to  him 
but  a  beautiful  picture  to  paint.  And  they  never 
will.  They  can't.  He's  made  that  way.  Listen! 
I  can  prove  it  to  you.  Up  to  this  winter  he's  al- 
ways been  a  care-free,  happy,  jolly  fellow,  and  you  : 
know  what  beautiful  work  he  has  done.  Never 
before  has  he  tied  himself  to  any  one  girl  till  last 
fall.  Then  you  two  entered  into  this  absurd  en- 
gagement. 

"  Now  what  has  it  been  since?  William  wrote 
me  himself  not  a  fortnight  ago  that  he'd  been 
worried  to  death  over  Bertram  for  weeks  past,  he's 
been  so  moody,  so  irritable,  so  fretted  over  his 
work,  so  unlike  himself.  And  his  picture  has 


320  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

failed  dismally.  Of  course  William  doesn't  under- 
stand; but  I  do.  I  know  you've  probably  quar- 
relled, or  something.  You  know  how  flighty  and 
,  unreliable  you  can  be  sometimes,  Billy,  and  I  don't 
say  that  to  mean  anything  against  you,  either  — 
that's  your  way.  You're  just  as  temperamental  in 
your  art,  music,  as  Bertram  is  in  his.  You're  ut- 
terly unsuited  to  him.  If  Bertram  is  to  marry 
anybody,  it  should  be  some  quiet,  staid,  sensible 
girl  who  would  be  a  help  to  him.  But  when  I  think 
of  you  two  flyaway  flutterbudgets  marrying  —  ! 

"  Now,  for  heaven's  sake,  Billy,  do  make  up  or 
something  —  and  do  it  now.  Don't,  for  pity's 
sake,  let  Bertram  ever  put  out  another  such  a  piece 
of  work  to  shame  us  all  like  this.  Do  you  want  to 
ruin  his  career? 

"  Faithfully  yours, 

"  KATE  HARTWELL. 

"  P.  S.  7  think  William's  the  one  for  you. 
He's  devoted  to  you,  and  his  quiet,  sensible  affec- 
tion is  just  what  your  temperament  needs.  I  al- 
ways thought  William  was  the  one  for  you.  Think 
it  over. 

"  P.  S.  No.  2.  You  can  see  by  the  above  that  it 
isn't  you  I'm  objecting  to,  my  dear.  It's  just  you- 
and-Bertram.  K." 


CHAPTER  XXX 


"  I'VE  HINDERED  HIM 


BILLY  was  shaking  with  anger  and  terror  by  the 
time  she  had  finished  reading  Kate's  letter.  Anger 
was  uppermost  at  the  moment,  and  with  one 
sweeping  wrench  of  her  trembling  fingers  she  tore 
the  closely  written  sheets  straight  through  the 
middle,  and  flung  them  into  the  little  wicker  bas- 
ket by  her  desk.  Then  she  went  down-stairs  and 
played  her  noisiest,  merriest  Tarantella,  and  tried 
to  see  how  fast  she  could  make  her  fingers  fly. 

But  Billy  could  not,  of  course,  play  tarantellas 
all  day;  and  even  while  she  did  play  them  she 
could  not  forget  that  waste-basket  up-stairs, 
and  the  horror  it  contained.  The  anger  was  still 
uppermost,  but  the  terror  was  prodding  her  at 
every  turn,  and  demanding  to  know  just  what  it 
was  that  Kate  had  written  in  that  letter,  anyway. 
It  is  not  strange  then,  perhaps,  that  before  two 
hours  passed,  Billy  went  up-stairs,  took  the  letter 
from  the  basket,  matched  together  the  torn 

321 


322  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

half-sheets  and  forced  her  shrinking  eyes  to  read 
every  word  again  —  just  to  satisfy  that  terror 
which  would  not  be  silenced. 

At  the  end  of  the  second  reading,  Billy  reminded 
herself  with  stern  calmness  that  it  was  only  Kate, 
after  all;  that  nobody  ought  to  mind  what  Kate 
said ;  that  certainly  she,  Billy,  ought  not  —  after 
the  experience  she  had  already  had  with  her  un- 
pleasant interference!  Kate  did  not  know  what 
she  was  talking  about,  anyway.  This  was  only 
another  case  of  her  trying  "to  manage."  She 
did  so  love  to  manage  —  everything! 

At  this  point  Billy  got  out  her  pen  and  paper 
and  wrote  to  Kate. 

It  was  a  formal,  cold  little  letter,  not  at  all  the 
sort  that  Billy's  friends  usually  received.  It 
thanked  Kate  for  her  advice,  and  for  her  "  kind 
willingness  "  to  have  Billy  for  a  sister;  but  it 
hinted  that  perhaps  Kate  did  not  realize  that  as 
long  as  Billy  was  the  one  who  would  have  to  live  • 
with  the  chosen  man,  it  would  be  pleasanter  to 
take  the  one  Billy  loved,  which  happened  in 
this  case  to  be  Bertram  —  not  William.  As  for 
any  "  quarrel "  being  the  cause  of  whatever 
fancied  trouble  there  was  with  the  new  picture  — 
the  letter  scouted  that  idea  in  no  uncertain  terms. 
There  had  been  no  suggestion  of  a  quarrel  even 
once  since  the  engagement. 


11  I've  Hindered  Him  "  323 

Then  Billy  signed  her  name  and  took  the  letter 
out  to  post  immediately. 

For  the  first  few  minutes  after  the  letter  had 
been  dropped  into  the  green  box  at  the  corner, 
,  Billy  held  her  head  high,  and  told  herself  that 
the  matter  was  now  closed.  She  had  sent  Kate 
a  courteous,  dignified,  conclusive,  effectual  answer: 
and  she  thought  with  much  satisfaction  of  the 
things  she  had  said. 

Very  soon,  however,  she  began  to  think  —  not 
so  much  of  what  she  had  said  —  but  of  what  Kate 
had  said.  Many  of  Kate's  sentences  were  un- 
pleasantly vivid  in  her  mind.  They  seemed, 
indeed,  to  stand  out  in  letters  of  flame,  and  they 
began  to  burn,  and  burn,  and  burn.  These  were 
some  of  them: 

"  William  says  that  Bertram  has  been  com- 
pletely out  of  fix  over  something,  and  as  gloomy 
as  an  owl  for  weeks  past." 

"  A  woman  is  at  the  bottom  of  it  —  .  .  .  you 
'  are  that  woman." 

"  You  can't  make  him  happy." 

"  Bertram  never  was  —  and  never  will  be  —  a 
marrying  man." 

"  Girls  have  never  meant  anything  to  him  but 
a  beautiful  picture  to  paint.  And  they  never 
will." 

"  Up  to  this  winter  he's  always  been  a  care- 


324  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

free,  happy,  jolly  fellow,  and  you  know  what 
beautiful  work  he  has  done.  Never  before  has 
he  tied  himself  to  any  one  girl  until  last 
fall." 

"  Now  what  has  it  been  since?  " 

"  He's  been  so  moody,  so  irritable,  so  fretted 
over  his  work,  so  unlike  himself;  and  his  picture 
has  failed,  dismally." 

"  Do  you  want  to  ruin  his  career?  " 

Billy  began  to  see  now  that  she  had  not  really 
answered  Kate's  letter  at  all.  The  matter  was  not 
closed.  Her  reply  had  been,  perhaps,  courteous 
and  dignified  —  but  it  had  not  been  conclusive 
nor  effectual. 

Billy  had  reached  home  now,  and  she  was 
crying.  Bertram  had  acted  strangely,  of  late. 
Bertram  had  seemed  troubled  over  something. 
His  picture  had —  With  a  little  shudder  Billy 
tossed  aside  these  thoughts,  and  dug  at  her  teary 
eyes  with  a  determined  hand.  Fiercely  she  told 
herself  that  the  matter  was  settled.  Very  scorn- 
fully she  declared  that  it  was  "  only  Kate," 
after  all,  and  that  she  would  not  let  Kate  make 
her  unhappy  again!  Forthwith  she  picked  up  a 
current  magazine  and  began  to  read. 

As  it  chanced,  however,  even  here  Billy  found 
no  peace;  for  the  first  article  she  opened  to  was 
headed  in  huge  black  type: 


"  I've  Hindered  Him  "  325 

"MARRIAGE  AND  THE  ARTISTIC  TEM- 
PERAMENT." 

With  a  little  cry  Billy  flung  the  magazine  far 
from  her,  and  picked  up  another.  But  even  "  The 
Elusiveness  of  Chopin,"  which  she  found  here, 
could  not  keep  her  thoughts  nor  her  eyes  from 
wandering  to  the  discarded  thing  in  the  corner, 
lying  ignominiously  face  down  with  crumpled, 
out-flung  leaves. 

Billy  knew  that  in  the  end  she  should  go  over 
and  pick  that  magazine  up,  and  read  that  article 
from  beginning  to  end.  She  was  not  surprised, 
therefore,  when  she  did  it  —  but  she  was  not  any 
the  happier  for  having  done  it. 

The  writer  of  the  article  did  not  approve  of 
marriage  and  the  artistic  temperament.  He  said 
the  artist  belonged  to  his  Art,  and  to  posterity 
through  his  Art.  The  essay  fairly  bristled  with 
many-lettered  words  and  high-sounding  phrases, 
few  of  which  Billy  really  understood.  She  did 
understand  enough,  however,  to  feel,  guiltily, 
when  the  thing  was  finished,  that  already  she  had 
married  Bertram,  and  by  so  doing  had  committed 
a  Crime.  She  had  slain  Art,  stifled  Ambition,  des- 
troyed Inspiration,  and  been  a  nuisance  generally. 
In  consequence  of  which  Bertram  would  hence- 
forth and  forevermore  be  doomed  to  Littleness. 


326  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

Naturally,  in  this  state  of  mind,  and  with  this 
vision  before  her,  Billy  was  anything  but  her 
bright,  easy  self  when  she  met  Bertram  an  hour 
or  two  later.  Naturally,  too,  Bertram,  still  the 
tormented  victim  of  the  bugaboo  his  jealous  fears 
had  fashioned,  was  just  in  the  mood  to  place  the 
worst  possible  construction  on  his  sweetheart's 
very  evident  unhappiness.  With  sighs,  unspoken 
questions,  and  frequently  averted  eyes,  therefore, 
the  wretched  evening  passed,  a  pitiful  misery  to 
them  both. 

During  the  days  that  followed,  Billy  thought 
that  the  world  itself  must  be  in  league  with  Kate, 
so  often  did  she  encounter  Kate's  letter  mas- 
querading under  some  thin  disguise.  She  did 
not  stop  to  realize  that  because  she  was  so  afraid 
she  would  find  it,  she  did  find  it.  In  the  books 
she  read,  in  the  plays  she  saw,  in  the  chance 
words  she  heard  spoken  by  friend  or  stranger  — 
always  there  was  something  to  feed  her  fears  in 
one  way  or  another.  Even  in  a  yellowed  news- 
paper that  had  covered  the  top  shelf  in  her  closet 
she  found  one  day  a  symposium  on  whether  or 
not  an  artist's  wife  should  be  an  artist;  and  she 
shuddered  —  but  she  read  every  opinion  given. 

Some  writers  said  no,  and  some,  yes ;  and  some 
said  it  all  depended  —  on  the  artist  and  his  wife. 
Billy  found  much  food  for  thought,  some  for 


"  I've  Hindered  Him  "  327 

amusement,  and  a  little  that  made  for  peace  of 
mind.  On  the  whole  it  opened  up  a  new  phase 
of  the  matter,  perhaps.  At  all  events,  upon  fin- 
ishing it  she  almost  sobbed : 

"  One  would  think  that  just  because  I  write  a 
song  now  and  then,  I  was  going  to  let  Bertram 
starve,  and  go  with  holes  in  his  socks  and  no 
buttons  on  his  clothes!  " 

It  was  that  afternoon  that  Billy  went  to  see 
Marie;  but  even  there  she  did  not  escape,  for 
the  gentle  Marie  all  unknowingly  added  her  mite 
to  the  woeful  whole. 

Billy  found  Marie  in  tears. 

"  Why,  Marie!  "  she  cried  in  dismay. 

"  Sh-h!  "  warned  Marie,  turning  agonized  eyes 
toward  the  closed  door  of  Cyril's  den. 

"  But,  dear,  what  is  it?  "  begged  Billy,  with  no 
less  dismay,  but  with  greater  caution. 

"  Sh-h!  "  admonished  Marie  again. 

On  tiptoe,  then,  she  led  the  way  to  a  room  at 
the  other  end  of  the  tiny  apartment.  Once  there, 
she  explained  in  a  more  natural  tone  of  voice: 

"  Cyril's  at  work  on  a  new  piece  for  the  piano." 

"  Well,  what  if  he  is?  "  demanded  Billy.  "  That 
needn't  make  you  cry,  need  it?  " 

"Oh,  no  —  no,  indeed,"  demurred  Marie,  in 
a  shocked  voice. 

"  Well,  then,  what  is  it?  " 


328  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

Marie  hesitated;  then,  with  the  abandon  of  a 
hurt  child  that  longs  for  sympathy,  she  sobbed: 

"  It  —  it's  just  that  I'm  afraid,  after  all,  that 
I'm  not  good  enough  for  Cyril." 

Billy  stared  frankly. 

"  Not  good  enough,  Marie  Henshaw!  Whatever 
in  the  world  do  you  mean?  " 

"  Well,  not  good  for  him,  then.  Listen !  To-day, 
I  know,  in  lots  of  ways  I  must  have  disappointed 
him.  First,  he  put  on  some  socks  that  I'd  darned. 
They  were  the  first  since  our  marriage  that  I'd 
found  to  darn,  and  I'd  been  so  proud  and  —  and 
happy  while  I  was  darning  them.  But  —  but 
he  took  'em  off  right  after  breakfast  and  threw 
'em  in  a  corner.  Then  he  put  on  a  new  pair,  and 
said  that  I  —  I  needn't  darn  any  more ;  that  it 
made  —  bunches.  Billy,  my  darns  —  bunches!  " 
Marie's  face  and  voice  were  tragic. 

"  Nonsense,  dear!  Don't  let  that  fret  you," 
comforted  Billy,  promptly,  trying  not  to  laugh 
too  hard.  "  It  wasn't  your  darns;  it  was  just 
darns  —  anybody's  darns.  Cyril  won't  wear 
darned  socks.  Aunt  Hannah  told  me  so  long  ago, 
and  I  said  then  there 'd  be  a  tragedy  when  you 
found  it  out.  So  don't  worry  over  that." 

"  Oh,  but  that  isn't  all,"  moaned  Marie.  "  Lis- 
ten! You  know  how  quiet  he  must  have  every- 
thing when  he's  composing  —  and  he  ought  to 


I've  Hindered  Him 


have  it,  too!  But  I  forgot,  this  morning,  and  put 
on  some  old  shoes  that  didn't  have  any  rubber 
heels,  and  I  ran  the  carpet  sweeper,  and  I  rattled 
tins  in  the  kitchen.  But  I  never  thought  a  thing 
until  he  opened  his  door  and  asked  me  please  to 
change  my  shoes  and  let  the  —  the  confounded 
dirt  go,  and  didn't  I  have  any  dishes  in  the  house 
but  what  were  made  of  that  abominable  tin 
s-stuff,"  she  finished  in  a  wail  of  misery. 

Billy  burst  into  a  ringing  laugh,  but  Marie's 
aghast  face  and  upraised  hand  speedily  reduced  it 
to  a  convulsive  giggle. 

"  You  dear  child!  Cyril's  always  like  that  when 
he's  composing,"  soothed  Billy.  "  I  supposed  you, 
knew  it,  dear.  Don't  you  fret!  Run  along  and 
make  him  his  favorite  pudding,  and  by  night  both 
of  you  will  have  forgotten  there  ever  were  such 
things  in  the  world  as  tins  and  shoes  and  carpet 
sweepers  that  clatter." 

Marie  shook  her  head.  Her  dismal  face  did  not 
relax. 

11  You  don't  understand,"  she  moaned.  "  It's 
myself.  I've  hindered  him!  "  She  brought  out  the 
word  with  an  agony  of  slow  horror.  "  And  only 
to-day  I  read  —  here,  look!"  she  faltered,  going 
to  the  table  and  picking  up  with  shaking  hands  a 
magazine. 

Billy  recognized  it  by  the  cover  at  once  —  an- 


330  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

other  like  it  had  been  flung  not  so  long  ago  by  her 
own  hand  into  the  corner.  She  was  not  surprised, 
therefore,  to  see  very  soon  at  the  end  of  Marie's 
trembling  finger: 

"  Marriage  and  the  Artistic  Temperament." 

Billy  did  not  give  a  ringing  laugh  this  time. 
She  gave  an  involuntary  little  shudder,  though  she 
tried  valiantly  to  turn  it  all  off  with  a  light  word 
of  scorn,  and  a  cheery  pat  on  Marie's  heaving 
shoulders.  But  she  went  home  very  soon ;  and  it 
was  plain  to  be  seen  that  her  visit  to  Marie  had 
not  brought  her  peace. 

Billy  knew  Kate's  letter,  by  heart,  now,  both  in 
the  original,  and  in  its  different  versions,  and  she 
knew  that,  despite  her  struggles,  she  was  being 
forced  straight  toward  Kate's  own  verdict:  that 
she,  Billy,  was  the  cause,  in  some  way,  of  the  de- 
plorable change  in  Bertram's  appearance,  manner, 
and  work.  Before  she  would  quite  surrender  to 
this  heart-sickening  belief,  however,  she  deter- 
mined to  ask  Bertram  himself.  Falteringly,  but 
resolutely,  therefore,  one  day,  she  questioned  him. 

"  Bertram,  once  you  hinted  that  the  picture  did 
not  go  right  because  you  were  troubled  over  some- 
thing; and  I've  been  wondering  —  was  it  about  — 
me,  in  any  way,  that  you  were  troubled?  " 

Billy  had  her  answer  before  the  man  spoke.  She 
had  it  in  the  quick  terror  that  sprang  to  his  eyess 


It  T» 


I've  Hindered  Him  "  331 

and  the  dull  red  that  swept  from  his  neck  to  his 
forehead.  His  reply,  so  far  as  words  wenf  did  not 
count,  for  it  evaded  everything  and  told  nothing. 
But  Billy  knew  without  words.  She  knew,  too, 
what  she  must  do.  For  the  time  being  she  took 
Bertram's  evasive  answer  as  he  so  evidently  wished 
it  to  be  taken;  but  that  evening,  after  he  had 
gone,  she  wrote  him  a  little'  note  and  broke  the 
engagement.  So  heartbroken  was  she  —  and  so 
fearful  was  she  that  he  should  suspect  this  —  that 
her  note,  when  completed,  was  a  cold  little  thing  of 
few  words,  which  carried  no  hint  that  its  very  cold- 
ness was  but  the  heart-break  in  the  disguise  of 
pride. 

This  was  like  Billy  in  all  ways.  Billy,  had  she 
lived  in  the  days  of  the  Christian  martyrs,  would 
have  been  the  first  to  walk  with  head  erect  into  the 
Arena  of  Sacrifice.  The  arena  now  was  just  every- 
day living,  the  lions  were  her  own  devouring  mis- 
ery, and  the  cause  was  Bertram's  best  good. 

From  Bertram's  own  self  she  had  it  now  —  that 
she  had  been  the  cause  of  his  being  troubled;  so 
she  could  doubt  no  longer.  The  only  part  that  was 
uncertain  was  the  reason  why  he  had  been 
troubled.  Whether  his  bond  to  her  had  become 
irksome  because  of  his  love  for  another,  or  because 
of  his  love  for  no  girl  —  except  to  paint,  Billy  did 
not  know.  But  that  it  was  irksome  she  did  not 


332  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

doubt  now.  Besides,  as  if  she  were  going  to  slay 
his  Art,  stifle  his  Ambition,  destroy  his  Inspira- 
tion, and  be  a  nuisance  generally  just  so  that  she 
might  be  happy!  Indeed,  no!  Hence  she  broke 
the  engagement. 
This  was  the  letter: 

"DEAR  BERTRAM:  —  You  won't  make  the 
move,  so  I  must.  I  knew,  from  the  way  you  spoke 
to-day,  that  it  was  about  me  that  you  were 
troubled,  even  though  you  generously  tried  to 
make  me  think  it  was  not.  And  so  the  picture  did 
not  go  well. 

"  Now,  dear,  we  have  not  been  happy  together 
lately.  You  have  seen  it;  so  have  I.  I  fear  our 
engagement  was  a  mistake,  so  I'm  going  to  send 
back  your  ring  to-morrow,  and  I'm  writing  this 
letter  to-night.  Please  don't  try  to  see  me  just 
yet.  You  know  what  I  am  doing  is  best  —  all 
round. 

"  Always  your  friend, 

"  BILLY." 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

FLIGHT 

BILLY  feared  if  she  did  not  mail  the  letter  at  once 
she  would  not  have  the  courage  to  mail  it  at  all.  So 
she  slipped  down-stairs  very  quietly  and  went  her- 
self to  the  post  box  a  little  way  down  the  street; 
then  she  came  back  and  sobbed  herself  to  sleep  — ' 
though  not  until  after  she  had  sobbed  awake  for 
long  hours  of  wretchedness. 

When  she  awoke  in  the  morning,  heavy-eyed 
and  unrested,  there  came  to  her  first  the  vague 
horror  of  some  shadow  hanging  over  her,  then  the 
sickening  consciousness  of  what  that  shadow  was. 
For  one  wild  minute  Billy  felt  that  she  must  run 
to  the  telephone,  summon  Bertram,  and  beseech 
him  to  return  unread  the  letter  he  would  receive 
from  her  that  day.  Then  there  came  to  her  the 
memory  of  Bertram's  face  as  it  had  looked  the 
night  before  when  she  had  asked  him  if  she  were 
the  cause  of  his  being  troubled.  There  came,  too, 
the  memory  of  Kate's  scathing  "  Do  you  want  to 
ruin  his  career?  "  Even  the  hated  magazine  article 
and  Marie's  tragic  "  I've  hindered  him!  "  added 

333 


334  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

their  mite;  and  Billy  knew  that  she  should  not  go 
to  the  telephone,  nor  summon  Bertram. 

The  one  fatal  mistake  now  would  be  to  let  Ber- 
tram see  her  own  distress.  If  once  he  should  sus- 
pect how  she  suffered  in  doing  this  thing,  there 
would  be  a  scene  that  Billy  felt  she  had  not  the 
courage  to  face.  She  must,  therefore,  manage  in 
some  way  not  to  see  Bertram  —  not  to  let  him  see 
her  until  she  felt  more  sure  of  her  self-control  no 
matter  what  he  said.  The  easiest  way  to  do  this 
was,  of  course,  to  go  away.  But  where?  How? 
She  must  think.  Meanwhile,  for  these  first  few 
hours,  she  would  not  tell  any  one,  even  Aunt 
Hannah,  what  had  happened.  There  must  no  one 
speak  to  her  of  it,  yet.  That  she  could  not  endure. 
Aunt  Hannah  would,  of  course,  shiver,  groan  "  Oh, 
my  grief  and  conscience!  "  and  call  for  another 
shawl;  and  Billy  just  now  felt  as  if  she  should 
scream  if  she  heard  Aunt  Hannah  say  "  Oh,  my 
grief  and  conscience!"  —  over  that.  Billy  went 
down  to  breakfast,  therefore,  with  a  determination 
to  act  exactly  as  usual,  so  that  Aunt  Hannah 
should  not  know  —  yet. 

When  people  try  to  "  act  exactly  as  usual,"  they 
generally  end  in  acting  quite  the  opposite;  and 
Billy  was  no  exception  to  the  rule.  Hence  her  at- 
tempted cheerfulness  became  flippantness,  and 
her  laughter  giggles  that  rang  too  frequently  to  be 


Flight  335 

quite  sincere  —  though  from  Aunt  Hannah  it  all 
elicited  only  an  affectionate  smile  at  "  the  dear 
child's  high  spirits." 

A  little  later,  when  Aunt  Hannah  was  glancing 
over  the  morning  paper  —  now  no  longer  barred 
from  the  door  —  she  gave  a  sudden  cry. 

"  Billy,  just  listen  to  this!  "  she  exclaimed,  read- 
ing from  the  paper  in  her  hand.  "  '  A  new  tenor  in 
"  The  Girl  of  the  Golden  West."  Appearance  of 
Mr.  M.  J.  Arkwright  at  the  Boston  Opera  House 
to-night.  Owing  to  the  sudden  illness  of  Dubassi, 
who  was  to  have  taken  the  part  of  Johnson  to- 
night, an  exceptional  opportunity  has  come  to  a 
young  tenor  singer,  one  of  the  most  promising  pu- 
pils at  the  Conservatory  school.  Arkwright  is  said 
to  have  a  fine  voice,  a  particularly  good  stage  pres- 
ence, and  a  purity  of  tone  and  smoothness  of  execu- 
tion that  few  of  his  age  and  experience  can  show. 
Only  a  short  time  ago  he  appeared  as  the  duke  at 
one  of  the  popular-priced  Saturday  night  perform- 
ances of  "  Rigoletto  ";  and  his  extraordinary  suc- 
cess on  that  occasion,  coupled  with  his  familiarity 
with,  and  fitness  for  the  part  of  Johnson  in  "  The 
Girl  of  the  Golden  West,"  led  to  his  being  chosen 
to  take  Dubassi's  place  to-night.  His  perform- 
ance is  awaited  with  the  greatest  of  interest.'  Now 
isn't  that  splendid  for  Mary  Jane?  I'm  so  glad!  " 
beamed  Aunt  Hannah. 


336  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

"Of  course  we're  glad!"  cried  Billy.  "And 
didn't  it  come  just  in  time?  This  is  the  last  week 
of  opera,  anyway,  you  know." 

"But  it  says  he  sang  before  —  on  a  Saturday 

•night,"  declared  Aunt  Hannah,  going  back  to  the 

'  paper  in  her  hand.    "  Now  wouldn't  you  have 

thought  we'd  have  heard  of  it,  or  read  of  it?     And 

wouldn't  you  have  thought  he'd  have  told  us?  " 

"  Oh,  well,  maybe  he  didn't  happen  to  see  us 
so  he  could  tell  us,"  returned  Billy  with  elaborate 
carelessness. 

"  I  know  it ;  but  it's  so  funny  he  hasn't  seen  us," 
contended  Aunt  Hannah,  frowning.  "  You  know 
how  much  he  used  to  be  here." 

Billy  colored,  and  hurried  into  the  fray. 

"  Oh,  but  he  must  have  been  so  busy,  with  all 
this,  you  know.  And  of  course  we  didn't  see  it  in 
the  paper  —  because  we  didn't  have  any  paper  at 
that  time,  probably.  Oh,  yes,  that's  my  fault,  I 
know,"  she  laughed;  "  and  I  was  silly,  I'll  own. 
But  we'll  make  up  for  it  now.  We'll  go,  of  course, 
I  wish  it  had  been  on  our  regular  season-ticket 
night,  but  I  fancy  we  can  get  seats  somewhere; 
and  I'm  going  to  ask  Alice  Greggory  and  her 
mother,  too.  I'll  go  down  there  this  morning  to 
tell  them,  and  to  get  the  tickets.  I've  got  it  all 
planned." 

Billy  had,  indeed,  "  got  it  all  planned."     She 


Flight  337 

had  been  longing  for  something  that  would  take 
her  away  from  the  house  —  and  if  possible  away , 
from  herself.    This  would  do  the  one  easily,  and 
might  help  on  the  other.    She  rose  at  once. 

"  I'll  go  right  away,"  she  said. 

"  But,  my  dear,"  frowned  Aunt  Hannah,  anx- 
iously, "  I  don't  believe  I  can  go  to-night  —  though 
I'd  love  to,  dearly." 

"  But  why  not?  " 

"I'm  tired  and  half  sick  with  a  headache  this 
morning.  I  didn't  sleep,  and  I've  taken  cold  some- 
where," sighed  the  lady,  pulling  the  top  shawl  a 
little  higher  about  her  throat. 

"  Why,  you  poor  dear,  what  a  shame!  " 

"  Won't  Bertram  go?  "  asked  Aunt  Hannah. 

Billy  shook  her  head  —  but  she  did  not  meet 
Aunt  Hannah's  eyes. 

"  Oh,  110.  I  sha'n't  even  ask  him.  He  said  last 
night  he  had  a  banquet  on  for  to-night  —  one  of 
his  art  clubs,  I  believe."  Billy's  voice  was  casu- 
alness  itself. 

"  But  you'll  have  the  Greggorys  —  that  is,  Mrs. 
Greggory  can  go,  can't  she?  "  inquired  Aunt  Han- 
nah. 

"  Oh,  yes;    I'm  sure  she  can,"  nodded  Billy. 
'  You  know  she  went  to  the  operetta,  and  this  is 
just  the  same  —  only  bigger." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  murmured  Aunt  Hannah. 


338  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

"  Dear  me!  How  can  she  get  about  so  on  those 
two  wretched  little  sticks?  She's  a  perfect  marvel 
to  me." 

"  She  is  to  me,  too,"  sighed  Billy,  as  she  hurried 
from  the  room. 

Billy  was,  indeed,  in  a  hurry.  To  herself  she 
said  she  wanted  to  get  away  —  away !  And  she 
got  away  as  soon  as  she  could. 

She  had  her  plans  all  made.  She  would  go  first 
to  the  Greggorys'  and  invite  them  to  attend  the 
opera  with  her  that  evening.  Then  she  would  get 
the  tickets.  Just  what  she  would  do  with  the  rest 
of  the  day  she  did  not  know.  She  knew  only  that 
she  would  not  go  home  until  time  to  dress  for 
dinner  and  the  opera.  She  did  not  tell  Aunt  Han- 
nah this,  however,  when  she  left  the  house.  She 
planned  to  telephone  it  from  somewhere  down 
town,  later.  She  told  herself  that  she  could  not 
stay  all  day  under  the  sharp  eyes  of  Aunt  Hannah 
—  but  she  managed,  nevertheless,  to  bid  that  lady 
a  particularly  blithe  and  bright-faced  good-by. 

Billy  had  not  been  long  gone  when  the  telephone 
bell  rang.  Aunt  Hannah  answered  it. 

"  Why,  Bertram,  is  that  you?  "  she  called,  in 
answer  to  the  words  that  came  to  her  across  the 
wire.  "  Why,  I  hardly  knew  your  voice!  " 

"  Didn't  you?    Well,  is  —  is  Billy  there?  " 


Flight  339 

"  No,  she  isn't.  She's  gone  down  to  see  Alice 
Greggory." 

"  Oh!  "  So  evident  was  the  disappointment  in 
the  voice  that  Aunt  Hannah  added  hastily: 

"  I'm  so  sorry!  She  hasn't  been  gone  ten  min- 
utes. But  —  is  there  any  message?  " 

"  No,  thank  you.  There's  no  —  message."  The 
voice  hesitated,  then  went  on  a  little  constrainedly. 
"  How  —  how  is  Billy  this  morning?  She  —  she's 
all  right,  isn't  she?  " 

Aunt  Hannah  laughed  in  obvious  amusement. 

"  Bless  your  dear  heart,  yes,  my  boy!  Has  it 
been  such  a  long  time  since  last  evening  —  when 
you  saw  her  yourself?  Yes,  she's  all  right.  In 
fact,  I  was  thinking  at  the  breakfast  table  how 
pretty  she  looked  with  her  pink  cheeks  and  her 
bright  eyes.  She  seemed  to  be  in  such  high  spirits." 

An  inarticulate  something  that  Aunt  Hannah 
could  not  quite  catch  came  across  the  line;  then 
a  somewhat  hurried  "  All  right.  Thank  you. 
Good-by." 

The  next  time  Aunt  Hannah  was  called  to  the 
telephone,  Billy  spoke  to  her. 

"  Aunt  Hannah,  don't  wait  luncheon  for  me, 
please.  I  shall  get  it  in  town.  And  don't  expect  me 
till  five  o'clock.  I  have  some  shopping  to  do." 

"  All  right,  dear,"  replied  Aunt  Hannah.  "  Did 
you  get  the  tickets?  " 


340  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

"  Yes,  and  the  Greggorys  will  go.  Oh,  and 
Aunt  Hannah!  " 

"  Yes,  dear." 

"  Please  tell  John  to  bring  Peggy  around  early 
enough  to-night  so  we  can  go  down  and  get  the 
Greggorys.  I  told  them  we'd  call  for  them." 

"  Very  well,  dear.    I'll  tell  him." 

"  Thank  you.    How's  the  poor  head?  " 

"  Better,  a  little,  I  think." 

"  That's  good.    Won't  you  repent  and  go,  too?  " 

"No  —  oh,  no,  indeed!  " 

"  All  right,  then;  good-by.    I'm  sorry!" 

"  So'm  I.  Good-by,"  sighed  Aunt  Hannah,  as 
she  hung  up  the  receiver  and  turned  away. 

It  was  after  five  o'clock  when  Billy  got  home, 
and  so  hurried  were  the  dressing  and  the  dinner 
that  Aunt  Hannah  forgot  to  mention  Bertram's 
telephone  call  till  just  as  Billy  was  ready  to  start 
for  the  Greggorys'. 

"  There!  and  I  forgot,"  she  confessed.  "Ber- 
tram called  you  up  just  after  you  left  this  morning, 
my  dear." 

"  Did  he?  "  Billy's  face  was  turned  away,  but 
Aunt  Hannah  did  not  notice  that. 

"  Yes.  Oh,  he  didn't  want  anything  special," 
smiled  the  lady,  "  only  —  well,  he  did  ask  if  you 
were  all  right  this  morning,"  she  finished  with 
quiet  mischief. 


Flight  341 

"  Did  he?  "  murmured  Billy  again.  This  time 
there  was  a  little  sound  after  the  words,  which 
Aunt  Hannah  would  have  taken  for  a  sob  if  she 
had  not  known  that  it  must  have  been  a  laugh. 

Then  Billy  was  gone. 

At  eight  o'clock  the  doorbell  rang,  and  a  minute 
later  Rosa  came  up  to  say  that  Mr.  Bertram  Hen- 
shaw  was  down-stairs  and  wished  to  see  Mrs. 
Stetson. 

Mrs.  Stetson  went  down  at  once. 

"  Why,  my  dear  boy,"  she  exclaimed,  as  she 
entered  the  room;  "  Billy  said  you  had  a  banquet 
on  for  to-night!  " 

"  Yes,  I  know;  but  —  I  didn't  go."  Bertram's 
face  was  pale  and  drawn.  His  voice  did  not  sound 
natural. 

"  Why,  Bertram,  you  look  ill!    Are  you  ill?  " 

The  man  made  an  impatient  gesture. 

"  No,  no,  I'm  not  ill  —  I'm  not  ill  at  all.  Rosa 
says  —  Billy's  not  here." 

"  No;  she's  gone  to  the  opera  with  the  Greg- 
gorys." 

'  The  opera  I  "     There  was  a  grieved  hurt  in 
Bertram's  voice  that  Aunt  Hannah  quite  mi; 
derstood.     She  hastened  to  give  an  apologetic 
explanation. 

"  Yes.  She  would  have  told  you  —  she  would 
have  asked  you  to  join  them,  I'm  sure,  but  she 


342  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

said  you  were  going  to  a  banquet.     I'm  sure  she 
said  so." 

"  Yes,  I  did  tell  her  so  —  last  night,"  nodded 
Bertram,  dully. 

Aunt  Hannah  frowned  a  little.  Still  more  anx- 
iously she  endeavored  to  explain  to  this  disap- 
pointed lover  why  his  sweetheart  was  not  at  home 
to  greet  him. 

"  Well,  then,  of  course,  my  boy,  she'd  never 
think  of  your  coming  here  to-night ;  and  when  she 
found  Mr.  Arkwright  was  going  to  sing- 

"Arkwright!"  There  was  no  listlessness  in 
Bertram's  voice  or  manner  now. 

"  Yes.  Didn't  you  see  it  in  the  paper?  Such  a 
splendid  chance  for  him!  His  picture  was  there, 
too." 

"  No.    I  didn't  see  it." 

"  Then  you  don't  know  about  it,  of  course," 
smiled  Aunt  Hannah.  "  But  he's  to  take  the  part 
of  Johnson  in  '  The  Girl  of  the  Golden  West.' 
Isn't  that  splendid?  I'm  so  glad!  And  Billy  was, 
too.  She  hurried  right  off  this  morning  to  get  the 
tickets  and  to  ask  the  Greggorys." 

"  Oh !  "  B  ertram  got  to  his  feet  a  little  abruptly, 
and  held  out  his  hand.  "  Well,  then,  I  might  as  well 
say  good-by  then,  I  suppose,"  he  suggested  with  a 
laugh  that  Aunt  Hannah  thought  was  a  bit  forced. 
Before  she  could  remind  him  again,  though,  that 


Flight  343 

Billy  was  really  not  to  blame  for  not  being  there  to 
welcome  him,  he  was  gone.  And  Aunt  Hannah 
could  only  go  up-stairs  and  meditate  on  the  un- 
reasonableness of  lovers  in  general,  and  of  Bertram 
in  particular. 

Aunt  Hannah  had  gone  to  bed,  but  she  was  still 
awake,  when  Billy  came  home,  so  she  heard  the 
automobile  come  to  a  stop  before  the  door,  and 
she  called  to  Billy  when  the  girl  came  up- 
stairs. 

"  Billy,  dear,  come  in  here.  I'm  awake!  I  want 
to  hear  about  it.  Was  it  good?  " 

Billy  stopped  in  the  doorway.  The  light  from 
the  hall  struck  her  face.  There  was  no  brightness 
in  her  eyes  now,  no  pink  in  her  cheeks. 

"Oh,  yes,  it  was  good  —  very  good,"  she  re- 
plied listlessly. 

:<  Why,  Billy,  how  queer  you  answer!  What 
was  the  matter?  Wasn't  Mary  Jane  —  all  right?  " 

"Mary  Jane?  Oh!  —  oh,  yes;  he  was  very 
good,  Aunt  Hannah." 

"  '  Very  good,'  indeed!  "  echoed  the  lady,  indig- 
nantly. "  He  must  have  been!  —  when  you  speak 
as  if  you'd  actually  forgotten  that  he  sang  at  all, 
anyway!  " 

Billy  had  forgotten  —  almost.  Billy  had  found 
that,  in  spite  of  her  getting  away  from  the  house, 
she  had  not  got  away  from  herself  once,  all  day. 


344  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

She  tried  now,  however,  to  summon  her  acting 
powers  of  the  morning. 

"  But  it  was  splendid,  really,  Aunt  Hannah," 
she  cried,  with  some  show  of  animation.  "  And 
they  clapped  and  cheered  and  gave  him  any  num- 
ber of  curtain  calls.  We  were  so  proud  of  him! 
But  you  see,  I  am  tired,"  she  broke  off  wearily. 

"  You  poor  child,  of  course  you  are,  and  you 
look  like  a  ghost !  I  won't  keep  you  another  min- 
ute. Run  along  to  bed.  Oh  —  Bertram  didn't  go 
to  that  banquet,  after  all.  He  came  here,"  she 
added,  as  Billy  turned  to  go. 

"  Bertram!  "    The  girl  wheeled  sharply. 

"  Yes.  He  wanted  you,  of  course.  I  found  I 
didn't  do,  at  all,"  chuckled  Aunt  Hannah.  "  Did 
you  suppose  I  would?  " 

There  was  no  answer.    Billy  had  gone. 

In  the  long  night  watches  Billy  fought  it  out 
with  herself.  (Billy  had  always  fought  things  out 
with  herself.)  She  must  go  away.  She  knew  that. 
Already  Bertram  had  telephoned,  and  called.  He 
evidently  meant  to  see  her  —  and  she  could  not 
see  him.  She  dared  not.  If  she  did  —  Billy  knew 
now  how  pitifully  little  it  would  take  to  make  her 
actually  willing  to  slay  Bertram's  Art,  stifle  his 
Ambition,  destroy  his  Inspiration,  and  be  a  nui- 
sance generally  —  if  only  she  could  have  Bertram 


Flight  345 

while  she  was  doing  it  all.  Sternly  then  she  asked 
herself  if  she  had  no  pride;  if  she  had  forgotten 
that  it  was  because  of  her  that  the  Winthrop  por- 
trait had  not  been  a  success  —  because  of  her, 
either  for  the  reason  that  he  loved  now  Miss  Win- 
throp, or  else  that  he  loved  no  girl  —  except  to 
paint. 

Very  early  in  the  morning  a  white-faced,  red- 
eyed  Billy  appeared  at  Aunt  Hannah's  bedside. 

"  Billy!  "  exclaimed  Aunt  Hannah,  plainly  ap- 
palled. 

Billy  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed. 

"  Aunt  Hannah,"  she  began  in  a  monotonous 
voice  as  if  she  were  reciting  a  lesson  she  had  learned 
by  heart,  "  please  listen,  and  please  try  not  to  be 
too  surprised.  You  were  saying  the  other  day  that 
you  would  like  to  visit  your  old  home  town.  Well, 
I  think  that's  a  very  nice  idea.  If  you  don't  mind 
we'll  go  to-day." 

Aunt  Hannah  pulled  herself  half  erect  in  bed. 

"  To-day  — child?" 

"  Yes,"  nodded  Billy,  unsmilingly.  "  We  shall 
have  to  go  somewhere  to-day,  and  I  thought  you 
would  like  that  place  best." 

"  But  —  Billy!  —  what  does  this  mean?  " 

Billy  sighed  heavily. 

"  Yes,  I  understand.  You'll  have  to  know  the 
rest,  of  course.  I've  broken  my  engagement.  I 


346  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

don't  want  to  see  Bertram.  That's  why  I'm  going 
away." 

Aunt  Hannah  fell  nervelessly  back  on  the  pillow. 
Her  teeth  fairly  chattered. 

"  Oh,  my  grief  and  conscience  —  Billy!  Won't 
you  please  pull  up  that  blanket,"  she  moaned. 
"  Billy,  what  do  you  mean?  " 

Billy  shook  her  head  and  got  to  her  feet. 

"  I  can't  tell  any  more  now,  really,  Aunt  Han- 
nah. Please  don't  ask  me;  and  don't  —  talk. 
You  will  —  go  with  me,  won't  you?  "  And  Aunt 
Hannah,  with  her  terrified  eyes  on  Billy's  piteously 
agitated  face,  nodded  her  head  and  choked: 

"Why,  of  course  I'll  go  —  anywhere  —  with 
you,  Billy;  but  —  why  did  you  do  it,  why  did  you 
do  it?  " 

A  little  later,  Billy,  in  her  own  room,  wrote  this 
note  to  Bertram: 

"DEAR  BERTRAM:  —  I'm  going  away  to-day. 
That'll  be  best  all  around.  You'll  agree  to  that, 
I'm  sure.  Please  don't  try  to  see  me,  and  please 
don't  write.  It  wouldn't  make  either  one  of  us 
any  happier.  You  must  know  that. 

"  As  ever  your  friend, 

"  BILLY." 

Bertram,  when  he  read  it,  grew  only  a  shade 
more  white,  a  degree  more  sick  at  heart.  Then  he 


Flight  347 

kissed  the  letter  gently  and  put  it  away  with  the 
other. 

To  Bertram,  the  thing  was  very  clear.  Billy  had 
come  now  to  the  conclusion  that  it  would  be  wrong 
to  give  herself  where  she  could  not  give  her  heart. 
And  in  this  he  agreed  with  her  —  bitter  as  it  was 
for  him.  Certainly  he  did  not  want  Billy,  if  Billy 
did  not  want  him,  he  told  himself.  He  would  now, 
of  course,  accede  to  her  request.  He  would  not 
write  to  her  —  and  make  her  suffer  more.  But  to 
Bertram,  at  that  moment,  it  seemed  that  the  very 
sun  in  the  heavens  had  gone  out. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

PETE  TO   THE   RESCUE 

ONE  by  one  the  weeks  passed  and  became  L. 
month.  Then  other  weeks  became  other  months. 
'  It  was  July  when  Billy,  homesick  and  weary,  came 
back  to  Hillside  with  Aunt  Hannah. 

Home  looked  wonderfully  good  to  Billy,  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  she  had  so  dreaded  to  see  it.  Billy 
had  made  up  her  mind,  however,  that,  come  some- 
time she  must.  She  could  not,  of  course,  stay  al- 
ways away.  Perhaps,  too,  it  would  be  just  as  easy 
at  home  as  it  was  away.  Certainly  it  could  not  be 
any  harder.  She  was  convinced  of  that.  Besides, 
she  did  not  want  Bertram  to  think  — 

Billy  had  received  only  meagre  news  from  Bos- 
ton since  she  went  away.  Bertram  had  not  written 
at  all.  William  had  written  twice  —  hurt,  grieved, 
puzzled,  questioning  letters  that  were  very  hard 
to  answer.  From  Marie,  too,  had  come  letters  of 
much  the  same  sort.  By  far  the  cheeriest  epistles 
had  come  from  Alice  Greggory.  They  contained, 
indeed,  about  the  only  comfort  Billy  had  known 
for  weeks,  for  they  showed  very  plainly  to  Billy 

348 


Pete  to  the  Rescue  349 

that  Arkwright's  heart  had  been  caught  on  the 
rebound ;  and  that  in  Alice  Greggory  he  was  find- 
ing the  sweetest  sort  of  balm  for  his  wounded  feel- 
ings. From  these  letters  Billy  learned,  too,  that 
Judge  Greggory's  honor  had  been  wholly  vindi- 
cated; and,  as  Billy  told  Aunt  Hannah,  "  any- 
body could  put  two  and  two  together  and  make 
four,  now." 

It  was  eight  o'clock  on  a  rainy  July  evening  that 
Billy  and  Aunt  Hannah  arrived  at  Hillside;  and 
it  was  only  a  little  past  eight  that  Aunt  Hannah 
was  summoned  to  the  telephone.  When  she  came 
back  to  Billy  she  was  crying  and  wringing  her 
hands. 

Billy  sprang  to  her  feet. 

11  Why,  Aunt  Hannah,  what  is  it?  What's  the 
matter?  "  she  demanded. 

Aunt  Hannah  sank  into  a  chair,  still  wringing 
her  hands. 

"  Oh,  Billy,  Billy,  how  can  I  tell  you,  how  can  I 
tell  you?  "  she  moaned. 

"  You  must  tell  me!   Aunt  Hannah,  what  is  it?  " 

"  Oh  —  oh  —  oh !     Billy,  I  can't  —  I  can't !  " 

"  But  you'll  have  to!  What  is  it,  Aunt  Han- 
nah? " 

"It's  — B-Bertram!" 

"  Bertram!  "  Billy's  face  grew  ashen.  "  Quick, 
quick  —  what  do  you  mean?  " 


350  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

For  answer,  Aunt  Hannah  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands  and  began  to  sob  aloud.  Billy,  almost 
beside  herself  now  with  terror  and  anxiety,  dropped 
on  her  knees  and  tried  to  pull  away  the  shaking 
hands. 

"  Aunt  Hannah,  you  must  tell  me!  You  must 
—  you  must!  " 

"  I  can't,  Billy.  It's  Bertram.  He's  —  hurt!  " 
choked  Aunt  Hannah,  hysterically. 

"Hurt!    How?" 

"  I  don't  know.    Pete  told  me." 

"Pete!" 

"  Yes.  Rosa  had  told  him  we  were  coming,  and 
he  called  me  up.  He  said  maybe  I  could  do  some- 
thing. So  he  told  me." 

"  Yes,  yes!    But  told  you  what?  " 

"  That  he  was  hurt." 

"  How?  " 

"  I  couldn't  hear  all,  but  I  think  'twas  an  acci- 
dent —  automobile.  And,  Billy,  Billy  —  Pete  says 
it's  his  arm  —  his  right  arm  —  and  that  maybe  he 
can't  ever  p-pairit  again!  " 

"  Oh-h!  "  Billy  fell  back  as  if  the  words  had 
been  a  blow.  ' '  Not  that ,  Aunt  Hannah — not  that ! ' ' 

"  That's  what  Pete  said.  I  couldn't  get  all  of  it, 
but  I  got  that.  And,  Billy,  he's  been  out  of  his 
head  —  though  he  isn't  now,  Pete  says  —  and  — 
and  —  and  he's  been  calling  for  you." 


Pete  to  the  Rescue  351 

"  For  —  me?  "  A  swift  change  came  to  Billy's 
face. 

"  Yes.  Over  and  over  again  he  called  for  you  — 
while  he  was  crazy,  you  know.  That's  why  Pete  , 
told  me.  He  said  he  didn't  rightly  understand 
what  the  trouble  was,  but  he  didn't  believe  there 
was  any  trouble,  really,  between  you  two;  any- 
way, that  you  wouldn't  think  there  was,  if  you 
could  hear  him,  and  know  how  he  wanted  you, 
and  — why,  Billy!" 

Billy  was  on  her  feet  now.  Her  fingers  were  on 
the  electric  push-button  that  would  summon  Rosa. 
Her  face  was  illumined.  The  next  moment  Rosa 
appeared. 

1  Tell  John  to  bring  Peggy  to  the  door  at  once, 
please,"  directed  her  mistress. 

"  Billy!  "  gasped  Aunt  Hannah  again,  as  the 
maid  disappeared.  Billy  was  tremblingly  putting 
on  the  hat  she  had  but  just  taken  off.  "  Billy, 
what  are  you  going  to  do?  " 

Billy  turned  in  obvious  surprise. 

"  Why,  I'm  going  to  Bertram,  of  course." 
'  To  Bertram!    But  it's  nearly  half -past  eight, 
child,  and  it  rains,  and  everything!  " 

"  But  Bertram  wants  me!  "  exclaimed  Billy. 
"  As  if  I'd  mind  rain,  or  time,  or  anything  else, 
now! " 

"But  —  but  —  oh,  my  grief  and  conscience!" 


352  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

groaned  Aunt  Hannah,  beginning  to  wring  her 
hands  again. 

Billy  reached  for  her  coat.  Aunt  Hannah  stirred 
into  sudden  action. 

"  But,  Billy,  if  you'd  only  wait  till  to-morrow," 
she  quavered,  putting  out  a  feebly  restraining 
hand. 

"  To-morrow!  "  The  young  voice  rang  with 
supreme  scorn.  "  Do  you  think  I'd  wait  till  to- 
morrow —  after  all  this?  I  say  Bertram  wants 
me."  Billy  picked  up  her  gloves. 

"  But  you  broke  it  off,  dear  —  you  said  you  did ; 
and  to  go  down  there  to-night  —  like  this  — 

Billy  lifted  her  head.  Her  eyes  shone.  Her 
whole  face  was  a  glory  of  love  and  pride. 

"  That  was  before.  I  didn't  know.  He  wants 
me,  Aunt  Hannah.  Did  you  hear?  He  wants  me! 
And  now  I  won't  even  —  hinder  him,  if  he  can't 
—  p-paint  again !  "  Billy's  voice  broke.  The  glory 
left  her  face.  Her  eyes  brimmed  with  tears,  but 
her  head  was  still  bravely  uplifted.  "I'm  going 
to  Bertram!  " 

Blindly  Aunt  Hannah  got  to  her  feet.  Still  more 
blindly  she  reached  for  her  bonnet  and  cloak  on 
the  chair  near  her. 

"  Oh,  will  you  go,  too?  "  asked  Billy,  abstract- 
edly, hurrying  to  the  window  to  look  for  the  motor 
car. 


Pete  to  the  Rescue  353 

"  Will  I  go,  too!  "  burst  out  Aunt  Hannah's  in- 
dignant voice.  "  Do  you  think  I'd  let  you  go 
alone,  and  at  this  time  of  night,  on  such  a  wild- 
goose  chase  as  this?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  murmured  Billy,  still 
abstractedly,  peering  out  into  the  rain. 

"  Don't  know,  indeed!  Oh,  my  grief  and  con- 
science! "  groaned  Aunt  Hannah,  setting  her  bon- 
net hopelessly  askew  on  top  of  her  agitated  head. 

But  Billy  did  not  even  answer  now.  Her  face 
.  was  pressed  hard  against  the  window-pane. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

BERTRAM  TAKES  THE   REINS 

WITH  stiffly  pompous  dignity  Pete  opened  the 
door.  The  next  moment  he  fell  back  in  amaze- 
ment before  the  impetuous  rush  of  a  starry-eyed, 
flushed-cheeked  young  woman  who  demanded: 

"  Where  is  he,  Pete?  " 

"  Miss  Billy!  "  gasped  the  old  man.  Then  he 
saw  Aunt  Hannah  —  Aunt  Hannah  with  her  bon- 
net askew,  her  neck-bow  awry,  one  hand  bare, 
and  the  other  half  covered  with  a  glove  wrong  side 
out.  Aunt  Hannah's  cheeks,  too,  were  flushed, 
and  her  eyes  starry,  but  with  dismay  and  anger  — 
the  last  because  she  did  not  like  the  way  Pete  had 
said  Miss  Billy's  name.  It  was  one  matter  for  her 
to  object  to  this  thing  Billy  was  doing  —  but  quite 
another  for  Pete  to  do  it. 

"  Of  course  it's  she!  "  retorted  Aunt  Hannah, 
testily.  "  As  if  you  yourself  didn't  bring  her  here 
with  your  crazy  messages  at  this  time  of  night!  " 

"  Pete,  where  is  he?  "  interposed  Billy.  "  Tell 
Mr.  Bertram  I  am  here  —  or,  wait!  I'll  go  right 
in  and  surprise  him." 

354 


Bertram  Takes  the  Reins          355 

"  Billy!  "  This  time  it  was  Aunt  Hannah  who 
gasped  her  name. 

Pete  had  recovered  himself  by  now,  but  he  did 
not  even  glance  toward  Aunt  Hannah.  His  face 
was  beaming,  and  his  old  eyes  were  shining. 

"  Miss  Billy,  Miss  Billy,  you're  an  angel  straight 
from  heaven,  you  are  —  you  are!  Oh,  I'm  so  glad 
you  came !  It'll  be  all  right  now  —  all  right !  He's 
in  the  den,  Miss  Billy." 

Billy  turned  eagerly,  but  before  she  could  take 
so  much  as  one  step  toward  the  door  at  the  end  of 
the  hall,  Aunt  Hannah's  indignant  voice  arrested 
her. 

"  Billy  —  stop!  You're  not  an  angel;  you're  a 
young  woman  —  and  a  crazy  one,  at  that !  What- 
ever angels  do,  young  women  don't  go  unan- 
nounced and  unchaperoned  into  young  men's 
rooms!  Pete,  go  tell  your  master  that  we  are 
here,  and  ask  if  he  will  receive  us" 

Pete's  lips  twitched.  The  emphatic  "  we  "  and 
"  us  "  were  not  lost  on  him.  But  his  face  was  pre- 
ternaturally  grave  when  he  spoke. 

"  Mr.  Bertram  is  up  and  dressed,  ma'am.  He's 
in  the  den.  I'll  speak  to  him." 

Pete,  once  again  the  punctilious  butler,  stalked 
to  the  door  of  Bertram's  den  and  threw  it  wide 
open. 

Opposite  the  door,  on  a  low  couch,  lay  Bertram, 


356  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

his  head  bandaged,  and  his  right  arm  in  a  sling. 
His  face  was  turned  toward  the  door,  but  his  eyes 
were  closed.  He  looked  very  white,  and  his  fea- 
tures were  pitifully  drawn  with  suffering. 

"  Mr.  Bertram,"  began  Pete  —  but  he  got  no 
further.  A  flying  figure  brushed  by  him  and  fell 
on  its  knees  by  the  couch,  with  a  low  cry. 

Bertram's  eyes  flew  open.  Across  his  face  swept 
such  a  radiant  look  of  unearthly  joy  that  Pete 
sobbed  audibly  and  fled  to  the  kitchen.  Dong  Ling 
found  him  there  a  minute  later  polishing  a  silver 
teaspoon  with  a  fringed  napkin  that  had  been 
spread  over  Bertram's  tray.  In  the  hall  above 
Aunt  Hannah  was  crying  into  William's  gray  linen 
duster  that  hung  on  the  hall-rack  —  Aunt  Han- 
nah's handkerchief  was  on  the  floor  back  at  Hillside. 

In  the  den  neither  Billy  nor  Bertram  knew  or 
cared  what  had  become  of  Aunt  Hannah  and  Pete. 
There  were  just  two  people  in  their  world  —  two 
people,  and  unutterable,  incredible,  overwhelm- 
ing rapture  and  peace.  Then,  very  gradually  it 
dawned  over  them  that  there  was,  after  all,  some- 
thing strange  and  unexplained  in  it  all. 

"  But,  dearest,  what  does  it  mean  —  you  here, 
like  this?  "  asked  Bertram  then.  As  if  to  make 
sure  that  she  was  "  here,  like  this,"  he  drew  her 
even  closer  —  Bertram  was  so  thankful  that  he 
did  have  one  arm  that  was  usable. 


Bertram  Takes  the  Reins          357 

Billy,  on  her  knees  by  the  couch,  snuggled  into 
the  curve  of  the  one  arm  with  a  contented  little 
sigh. 

"  Well,  you  see,  just  as  soon  as  I  found  out  to- 
night that  you  wanted  me,  I  came,"  she  said. 

"You  darling!  That  was  — "  Bertram 
stopped  suddenly.  A  puzzled  frown  showed  be- 
low the  fantastic  bandage  about  his  head.  "  '  As 
soon  as,'  "  he  quoted  then  scornfully.  "  Were 
you  ever  by  any  possible  chance  thinking  I  didn't 
want  you?  " 

Billy's  eyes  widened  a  little. 

"  Why,  Bertram,  dear,  don't  you  see?  When 
you  were  so  troubled  that  the  picture  didn't  go 
well,  and  I  found  out  it  was  about  me  you  were 
troubled  —  I  —  " 

"  Well?  "    Bertram's  voice  was  a  little  strained. 

"Why,  of  —  of  course,"  stammered  Billy,  "I 
couldn't  help  thinking  that  maybe  you  had  found 
out  you  didn't  want  me." 

"  Didn't  want  you!  "  groaned  Bertram,  his  tense 
muscles  relaxing.  "  May  I  ask  why?  " 

Billy  blushed. 

"  I  wasn't  quite  sure  why,"  she  faltered;  "  only, 
of  course,  I  thought  of  —  of  Miss  Winthrop,  you 
know,  or  that  maybe  it  was  because  you  didn't 
care  for  any  girl,  only  to  paint  —  oh,  oh,  Bertram! 
Pete  told  us,"  she  broke  off  wildly, beginning  to  sobv 


S58  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

"  Pete  told  you  that  I  didn't  care  for  any  girl, 
only  to  paint?  "  demanded  Bertram,  angry  and 
mystified. 

"  No,  no,"  sobbed  Billy,  "  not  that.  It  was  all 
the  others  that  told  me  that !  Pete  told  Aunt  Han- 
nah about  the  accident,  you  know,  and  he  said  — 
he  said  —  Oh,  Bertram,  I  can't  say  it!  But  that's 
one  of  the  things  that  made  me  know  I  could  come 
now,  you  see,  because  I  —  I  wouldn't  hinder  you, 
nor  slay  your  Art,  nor  any  other  of  those  dreadful 
things  if  —  if  you  couldn't  ever  —  p-paint  again," 
finished  Billy  in  an  uncontrollable  burst  of 
grief. 

"  There,  there,  dear,"  comforted  Bertram,  pat- 
ting the  bronze-gold  head  on  his  breast.  "  I 
haven't  the  faintest  idea  what  you're  talking  about 
—  except  the  last ;  but  I  know  there  can't  be  any- 
thing that  ought  to  make  you  cry  like  that.  As 
for  my  not  painting  again  —  you  didn't  under- 
stand Pete,  dearie.  That  was  what  they  were 
afraid  of  at  first  —  that  I'd  lose  my  arm;  but  that 
danger  is  all  past  now.  I'm  loads  better.  Of 
course  I'm  going  to  paint  again  —  and  better  than 
ever  before  —  now!  " 

Billy  lifted  her  head.  A  look  that  was  almost 
terror  came  to  her  eyes.  She  pulled  herself  half 
away  from  Bertram's  encircling  arm. 

"  Why,  Billy,"  cried  the  man,  in  pained  stir- 


Bertram  Takes  the  Reins          359 

prise.  "  You  don't  mean  to  say  you're  sorry  I'm 
going  to  paint  again!  " 

"  No,  no!  Oh,  no,  Bertram  —  never  that!  "  she 
faltered,  still  regarding  him  with  fearful  eyes. 
"  It's  only  —  for  me,  you  know.  I  can't  go  back 
now,  and  not  have  you  —  after  this!  —  even  if  I 
do  hinder  you,  and  —  " 

"  Hinder  me!  What  are  you  talking  about, 
Billy?  " 

Billy  drew  a  quivering  sigh. 

"  Well,  to  begin  with,  Kate  said  —  " 

"  Good  heavens!  Is  Kate  in  this,  too?  "  Ber- 
tram's voice  was  savage  now. 

"  Well,  she  wrote  a  letter." 

"  I'll  warrant  she  did!  Great  Scott,  Billy! 
Don't  you  know  Kate  by  this  time?  " 

"  Y-yes,  I  said  so,  too.  But,  Bertram,  what  she 
wrote  was  true.  I  found  it  everywhere,  after- 
wards —  in  magazines  and  papers,  and  even  in 
Marie." 

"  Humph!  Well,  dearie,  I  don't  know  yet  what 
you  found,  but  I  do  know  you  wouldn't  have  found 
it  at  all  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Kate  —  and  I  wish  I 
had  her  here  this  minute!  " 

Billy  giggled  hysterically. 

11 1  don't  —  not  right  here,"  she  cooed,  nestling 
comfortably  against  her  lover's  arm.  "  But  you 
see,  dear,  she  never  has  approved  of  the  marriage." 


360  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

"  Well,  who's  doing  the  marrying  —  she,  or  I?  " 

"  That's  what  I  said,  too  —  only  in  another 
way,"  sighed  Billy.  "  But  she  called  us  flyaway 
flutterbudgets,  and  she  said  I'd  ruin  your  career, 
if  I  did  marry  you." 

"  Well,  I  can  tell  you  right  now,  Billy,  you  will 
ruin  it  if  you  don't!  "  declared  Bertram.  '  That's 
what  ailed  me  all  the  time  I  was  painting  that  mis- 
erable portrait.  I  was  so  worried  —  for  fear  I'd 
lose  you." 

"  Lose  me!  Why,  Bertram  Henshaw,  what  do 
you  mean?  " 

A  shamed  red  crept  to  the  man's  forehead. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  I  might  as  well  own  up  now  as 
any  time.  I  was  scared  blue,  Billy,  with  jealousy 
of  —  Arkwright." 

Billy  laughed  gayly  —  but  she  shifted  her  posi- 
tion and  did  not  meet  her  lover's  eyes. 

"Arkwright?  Nonsense!  "  she  cried.  "Why, 
he's  going  to  marry  Alice  Greggory.  I  know  he  is! 
I  can  see  it  as  plain  as  day  in  her  letters.  He's 
there  a  lot." 

"  And  you  never  did  think  for  a  minute,  Billy, 
that  you  cared  for  him?  "  Bertram's  gaze  searched 
Billy's  face  a  little  fearfully.  He  had  not  been 
slow  to  mark  that  swift  lowering  of  her  eyelids. 
But  Billy  looked  him  now  straight  in  the  face  — 
it  was  a  level,  frank  gaze  of  absolute  truth. 


Bertram  Takes  the  Reins          361 

"  Never,  dear,"  she  said  firmly.  (Billy  was  so 
glad  Bertram  had  turned  the  question  on  her  love 
instead  of  Arkwright's!)  "  There  has  never  really 
been  any  one  but  you." 

"  Thank  God  for  that,"  breathed  Bertram,  as  he  > 
drew  the  bright  head  nearer  and  held  it  close. 

After  a  minute  Billy  stirred  and  sighed  happily. 

"  Aren't  lovers  the  beat 'em  for  imagining 
things?  "  she  murmured. 

"  They  certainly  are." 

"  You  see  —  I  wasn't  in  love  with  Mr.  Ark- 
wright." 

"  I  see  —  I  hope." 

"  And  —  and  you  didn't  care  specially  for  —  for 
MissWinthrop?  " 

"Eh?  Well,  no !  "  exploded  Bertram.  "  Do  you 
mean  to  say  you  really  —  " 

Billy  put  a  soft  finger  on  his  lips. 

"  Er — '  people  who  live  in  glass  houses'  you 
know,"  she  reminded  him,  with  roguish  eyes. 

Bertram  kissed  the  finger  and  subsided. 

"  Humph!  "  he  commented. 

There  was  a  long  silence;  then,  a  little  breath- 
lessly, Billy  asked: 

"  And  you  don't  —  after  all,  love  me  —  just  to 
paint?  " 

"  Well,  what  is  that?  Is  that  Kate,  too?  "  de- 
manded Bertram,  grimly. 


362  Miss  Billyhs  Decision 

Billy  laughed. 

"  No  —  oh,  she  said  it,  all  right,  but,  you  see, 
everybody  said  that  to  me,  Bertram;  and  that's 
what  made  me  so  —  so  worried  sometimes  when 
you  talked  about  the  tilt  of  my  chin,  and  all  that." 

"  Well,  by  Jove!  "  breathed  Bertram. 

There  was  another  silence.  Then,  suddenly, 
Bertram  stirred. 

"  Billy,  I'm  going  to  marry  you  to-morrow,"  he 
announced  decisively. 

Billy  lifted  her  head  and  sat  back  in  palpitating 
dismay. 

"  Bertram!    What  an  absurd  idea!  " 

"  Well,  I  am.  I  don't  know  as  I  can  trust  you 
out  of  my  sight  till  then!  You'll  read  something, 
or  hear  something,  or  get  a  letter  from  Kate  after 
breakfast  to-morrow  morning,  that  will  set  you 
'  saving  me  '  again;  and  I  don't  want  to  be  saved 
—  that  way.  I'm  going  to  marry  you  to-morrow. 
I'll  get  —  "  He  stopped  short,  with  a  sudden 
frown.  "  Confound  that  law!  I  forgot.  Great 
Scott,  Billy,  I'll  have  to  trust  you  five  days,  after 
all!  There's  a  new  law  about  the  license.  We've 
got  to  wait  five  days  —  and  maybe  more,  counting 
in  the  notice,  and  all." 

Billy  laughed  softly. 

"  Five  days,  indeed,  sir!  I  wonder  if  you  think 
I  can  get  ready  to  be  married  in  five  days." 


Bertram  Takes  the  Reins         363 

"  Don't  want  you  to  get  ready,"  retorted  Ber- 
tram, promptly.  "  I  saw  Marie  get  ready,  and  I 
had  all  I  wanted  of  it.  If  you  really  must  have  all 
those  miles  of  tablecloths  and  napkins  and  doilies 
and  lace  ruining,  we'll  do  it  afterwards,  —  not  be- 
fore." 

"But  —  " 

"  Besides,  I  need  you  to  take  care  of  me,"  cut  in 
Bertram,  craftily. 

"  Bertram,  do  you  —  really?  " 

The  tender  glow  on  Billy's  face  told  its  own 
story,  and  Bertram's  eager  eyes  were  not  slow  to 
read  it. 

"  Sweetheart,  see  here,  dear,"  he  cried  softly, 
tightening  his  good  left  arm.  And  forthwith  he 
began  to  tell  her  how  much  he  did,  indeed,  need 
her. 

"Billy,  my  dear!"  It  was  Aunt  Hannah's 
plaintive  voice  at  the  doorway,  a  little  later.  '  We 
must  go  home ;  and  William  is  here,  too,  and  wants 
to  see  you." 

Billy  rose  at  once  as  Aunt  Hannah  entered  the 
room. 

"  Yes,  Aunt  Hannah,  I'll  come;  besides  -  "  she 
glanced  at  Bertram  mischievously  —  "I  shall 
need  all  the  time  I've  got  to  prepare  for  —  my 
wedding." 


864  Miss  Billy's  Decision 

"  Your  wedding!  You  mean  it'll  be  before  — 
October?  "  Aunt  Hannah  glanced  from  one  to  the 
other  uncertainly.  Something  in  their  smiling 
faces  sent  a  quick  suspicion  to  her  eyes. 

"  Yes,"  nodded  Billy,  demurely.  "  It's  next 
Tuesday,  you  see." 

1 '  Next  Tuesday !  But  that's  only  a  week  away," 
gasped  Aunt  Hannah. 
3  "  Yes,  a  week." 

"But,  child,  your  trousseau  —  the  wedding  — 
the  —  the  —  a  week!  "  Aunt  Hannah  could  not 
articulate  further. 

"  Yes,  I  know;  that  is  a  good  while,"  cut  in  Ber- 
tram, airily.  "  We  wanted  it  to-morrow,  but  we 
had  to  wait,  on  account  of  the  new  license  law. 
Otherwise  it  wouldn't  have  been  so  long,  and- 

But  Aunt  Hannah  was  gone.  With  a  low- 
breathed  "  Long!  Oh,  my  grief  and  conscience  — 
William!  "  she  had  fled  through  the  hall  door. 

"  Well,  it  is  long,"  maintained  Bertram,  with 
tender  eyes,  as  he  reached  out  his  hand  to  say 
f  good-night. 

THE  END. 


JOHN  FOX,  JR'S. 

STORIES   OF  THE  KENTUCKY  MOUNTAINS 

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THE  TRAIL   OF  THE    LONESOME  PINE./ 
Illustrated  by  F.  C.  Yohn. 

The  "lonesome  pine"  from  which  the 
story  takes  its  name  was  a  tall  tree  that 
stood  in  solitary  splendor  on  a  mountain 
top.  The  fame  of  the  pine  lured  a  young 
engineer  through  Kentucky  to  catch  the 
trail,  and  when  he  finally  climbed  to  its 
shelter  he  found  not  only  the  pine  but  the 
foot-Prints  of  a  girl.  And  the  girl  proved 
to  be  lovely,  piquant,  and  the  trail  of 
these  girlish  foot-prints  led  the  young 
engineer  a  madder  chase  than  "the  trail , 
of  the  lonesome  pine." 

THE    LITTLE    SHEPHERD    OF    KINGDOM    COME 

Illustrated  by  F.  C.  Yohn. 

This  is  a  story  of  Kentucky,  in  a  settlement  known  as  "King- 
dom Come."  It  is  a  life  rude,  semi-barbarous;  but  natural 
and  honest,  from  which  often  springs  the  flower  of  civilization. 

"  Chad."  the  "little  shepherd"  did  not  know  who  he  was  nor 
whence  he  came — he  had  just  wandered  from  door  to  door  since 
early  childhood,  seeking  shelter  with  kindly  mountaineers  who 
gladly  fathered  and  mothered  this  waif  about  whom  there  was 
such  a  mystery — a  charming  waif,  by  the  way,  who  could  play 
the  banjo  better  that  anyone  else  in  the  mountains. 

A  KNIGHT  OF  THE    CUMBERLAND./ 
Illustrated   by  F.  C.  Yohn. 

The  scenes  are  laid  along  the  waters  of  the  Cumberland* 
the  lair  of  moonshiner  and  feudsman.  The  knight  is  a  moon- 
shiner's son,  and  the  heroine  a  beautiful  girl  perversely  chris- 
tened "The  Blight."  Two  impetuous  young  Southerners'  fall 
under  the  spell  of  "The  Blight's  "  charms  and  she  learns  what 
a  large  part  jealousy  and  pistols  have  in  the  love  making  of  the 
mountaineers. 

Included  in  this  volume  is  "Hell  fer-Sartain"  and  other 
stories,  some  of  Mr.  Fox's  most  entertaining  Cumberland  valley 
narratives. 

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ZANE  GREY'S  NOVELS 

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THE  LIGHT  OF  WESTERN  STARS 
Colored  frontispiece  by  W.  Herbert  Dunton. 

Most  of  the  action  of  this  story  takes  place  near  the  turbulent 
,Mexican  border  of  the  present  day.  A  New  York  society  girl  buys 
a  ranch  which  becomes  the  center  of  frontier  warfare.  Her  loyal 
cowboys  defend  her  property  from  bandits,  and  her  superintendent* 
rescues  her  when  she  is  captured  by  them.  A  surprising  climax 
brings  the  story  to  a  delightful  close. 

DESERT  GOLD 

Illustrated  by  Douglas  Duer. 

Another  fascinating  story  of  the  Mexican  border.    Two  men, 
lost  in  the  desert,  discover  gold  when,  overcome  by  weakness,  they 
can  go  no  farther.  The  rest  of  the  story  describes  the  recent  uprising 
along  the  border,  and  ends  with  the  finding  of  the  gold  which  the 
two  prospectors  had  willed  to  the  girl  who  is  the  story's  heroine. 
RIDERS  OF  THE  PURPLE  SAGE 
Illustrated  by  Douglas  Duer. 

A  picturesque  romance  of  Utah  of  some  forty  years  ago  when 
Mormon  authority  ruled.  In  the  persecution  of  Jane  Withersteen,  a 
rich  ranch  owner,  we  are  permitted  to  see«the  methods  employed  by 
the  invisible  hand  of  the  Mormon  Church  to  break  her  will. 

THE  LAST  OF  THE  PLAINSMEN 

Illustrated  with  photograph  reproductions. 

This  is  the  record  of  a  trip  which  the  author  took  with  Buffalo 
Jones,  known  as  the  preserver  of  the  American  bison,  across  the 
Arizona  desert  and  of  a  hunt  in  "that  wonderful  country  of  yellow 
crags,  deep  canons  and  giant  pines."  It  is  a  fascinating  story. 

THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  DESERT 

Jacket  in  color.     Frontispiece. 

This  big  human  drama  is  played  in  the  Painted  Desert.  A 
lovely  girl,  who  has  been  reared  among  Mormons,  learns  to  love  a 
young  New  Englander.  The  Mormon  religion,  however,  demands 
that  the  girl  shall  become  the  second  wife  of  one  of  the  Mormons—' 

Well,  that's  the  problem  of  this  sensational,  big  selling  story. 

BETTY  ZANE 
Illustrated  by  Louis  F.  Grant. 

This  story  tells  of  the  bravery  and  heroism  of  Betty,  the  beauti- 
ful young  sister  of  old  Colonel  Zane,  one  of  the  bravest  pioneers. 
Life  along  the  frontier,  attacks  by  Indians,  Betty's  heroic  defense 
of  the  beleaguered  garrison  at  Wheeling,  the  burning  of  the  Fort, 
and  Betty's  final  race  for  lif  e,make  up  this  never-to-be-forgotten  story. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,    PUBLISHERS,   NEW  YORK 


THE  NOVELS  OF 

WINSTON  CHURCHILL 

THE  INSIDE  OF  THE  CUP.    Illustrated  by  Howard  Giles. 

The  Reverend  John  Hodder  is  called  to  a  fashionable  church  in 
a  middle- western  city.  He  knows  little  of  modern  problems  and  in 
his  theology  is  as  orthodox  as  the  rich  men  who  control  his  church 
could  desire.  But  the  facts  of  modern  life  are  thrust  upon  him;  an. 
awakening  follows  and  in  the  end  he  works  out  a  solution. 
A  FAR  COUNTRY.  Illustrated  by  Herman  Pfeifer. 

This  novel  is  concerned  with  big  problems  of  the  day.    As  The 
Inside  of  the  Cup  gets  down  to  the  essentials  in  its  discussion  of  re- 
ligion, so  A  Far  Country  deals  in  a  story  that  is  intense  and  dra- 
matic, with  other  vital  issues  confronting  the  twentieth  century. 
A  MODERN  CHRONICLE.    Illustrated  by  J.  H.  Gardner  Soper. 

This,  Mr.   Churchill's  first  great  presentation  of  the  Eternal 
Feminine,  is  throughout  a  profound  study  of  a  fascinating  young 
American  woman.    It  is  frankly  a  modern  love  story. 
MR.  CREWE'S  CAREER.     Illus.  by  A.  I.  Keller  and  Kinneys. 

A  new  England  state  is  under  the  political  domination  of  a  rail- 
way and  Mr.  Crewe,  a  millionaire,  seizes  a  moment  when  the  cause 
of  the  people  is  being  espoused  by  an  ardent  young  attorney,  to  fur- 
ther his  own  interest  in  a  political  way.  The  daughter  of  the  rail- 
way president  plays  no  small  part  in  the  situation. 
THE  CROSSING.  Illustrated  by  S.  Adamson  and  L.  Baylis. 

Describing  the  battle  of  Fort  Moultrie,  the  blazing  of  the  Ken- 
tucky wilderness,  the  expedition  of  Clark  and  his  handful  of  follow- 
ers in   Illinois,  the  beginning  of   civilization  along  the  Ohio  and 
Mississippi,  and  the  treasonable  schemes  against  Washington. 
CONISTON.    Illustrated  by  Florence  Scovel  Shinn. 

A  deft  blending  of  love  and  politics.    A  New  Englander  Is  the 
hero,  a  crude  man  who  rose  to  political  prominence  by  his  own  pow. 
ers,  and  then  surrendered  all  for  the  love  of  a  woman. 
THE  CELEBRITY.    An  episode. 

An  inimitable  bit  of  comedy  describing  an  interchange  of  per- 
sonalities between  a  celebrated  author  and  a  bicycle  salesman.  It 
is  the  purest,  keenest  fun — and  is  American  to  the  core. 

FHE  CRISIS.     Illustrated  with  scenes  from  the  Photo-Play. 

A  book   that  presents  the  great  crisis  in  our  national  life  with 
splendid  power  and  with  a  sympathy,  a  sincerity,  and  a  patriotism 
that  are  inspiring. 
RICHARD  CARVEL.    Illustrated  by  Malcolm  Frazer. 

An  historical  novel  which  gives  a  real  and  vivid  picture  of  Co- 
lonial times,  and  is  good,  clean,  spirited  reading  in  all  its  phases  and 
interesting  throughout. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,      PUBLISHERS,     NEW  YORK 


STORIES  OF  RARE  CHARM  BY 

GENE  STRATTON-PORTER 

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LADDIE. 

Illustrated  by  Herman  Pfeifer. 

This  is  a  bright,  cheery  tale  with  the 
scenes  laid  in  Indiana.  The  story  is  told 
by  Little  Sister,  the  youngest  member  of 
a  large  family,  but  it  is  concerned  not  so 
much  with  childish  doings  as  with  the  love 
affairs  of  older  members  of  the  family. 
Chief  among  them  is  that  of  Laddie,  the 
older  brother  whom  Little  Sister  adores, 
and  the  Princess,  an  English  girl  who  has 
come  to  live  in  the  neighborhood  and  about 
whose  family  there  hangs  a  mystery. 
There  is  a  wedding  midway  in  the  book 
and  a  double  wedding  at  the  close. 
THE  HARVESTER.  Illustrated  by  W.  L.  Jacobs. 

"The  Harvester,"  David  Langston,  is  a  man  of.  the  woods  and 
fields,  who  draws  his  living  from  the  prodigal  hand  of  Mother 
Nature  herself.  If  the  book  had  nothing  in  it  but  the  splendid  figure 
of  this  man  it  would  be  notable.  But  when  the  Girl  comes  to  his 
"Medicine  Woods,"  and  the  Harvester's  whole  being  realizes  that 
this  is  the  highest  point  of  life  which  has  come  to  him — there  begins 
a,  romance  of  the  rarest  idyllic  quality. 
FRECKLES.  Decorations  by  E.  Stetson  Crawford. 

Freckles  is  a  nameless  waif  when  the  tale  opens,  but  the  way  in 
which  he  takes  hold  of  life;  the  nature  friendships  he  forms  in  the 
great  Limberlost  Swamp;  the  manner  in  which  everyone  who  meets 
him  succumbs  to  the  charm  of  his  engaging  personality;  and  his 
love-story  with  "The  Angel"  are  full  of  real  sentiment. 
A  GIRL  OF  THE  LIMBERLOST. 
Illustrated  by  Wladyslaw  T.  Brenda. 

The  story  of  a  girl  of  the  Michigan  woods;  a  buoyant,  lovable 
type  of  the  self-reliant  American.  Her  philosophy  is  one  of  love  and 
kindness  towards  all  things;  her  hope  is  never  dimmed.  And  by  the 
sheer  beauty  of  her  soul,  and  the  purity  of  her  vision,  she  wins  from 
barren  and  unpromising  surroundings  those  rewards  of  high  courage. 
AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  RAINBOW. 
Illustrations  in  colors  by  Oliver  Kemp. 

The  scene  of  this  charming  love  story  is  laid  in  Central  Indiana. 
The  story  is  one  of  devoted  friendship,  and  tender  self-sacrificing 
love.  The  novel  is  brimful  of  the  most  beautiful  word  painting  of 
nature,  and  its  pathos  and  tender  sentiment  will  endear  it  to  all. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,     PUBLISHERS,      NE'W  YORFC 


MYRTLE    REED'S  NOVELS 

g  ; 

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LAVENDER  AND  OLD  LACE. 

A  charming  story  of  a  quaint  ~comer~ci 
New  England  where  bygone  romance  finds  a 
modern  parallel  The  story  centers  round! 
the  coming  of  love  to  the  young  people  on 
the  stan!  of  a  newspaper— and  it  is  one  of  the 
prettiest,  sweetest  and  quaintest  of  old  fash- 
ioned love  stories,  *  *  *  a  rare  book,  ex- 
quisite in  spirit  and  conception,  full  of 
delicate  fancy,  of  tenderness,  of  delightful 
humor  and  spootaniety. 

A  SPINNER  IN  THE  SUN. 

Miss  Myrtle  Reed  may  always  be  depended  npon  to  write  a  story 
in  which  poetry,  charm,  tenderness  and  humor  are  combined  into  a 
clever  and  entertaining  book.  Her  characters  are  delightful  and  she 
always  displays  a  quaint  humor  of  expression  and  a  quiet  feeling  of 
pathos  which  give  a  touch  of  active  realism  to  all  her  writings.  In 
"A  Spinner  in  the  Sun"  she  tells  an  old-fashioned  love  story,  of  a 
veiled  lady  who  lives  in  'solitude  and  whose  features  her  neighbors 
have  never  seen.  There  is  a  mystery  at  the  heart  of  the  book  that 
throws  over  it  the  glamour  of  romance. 

THE  MASTER'S   VIOLTN. 

A  love  story  in  a  musical  atmospnere.  A  picturesqne,  old  Ger- 
man virtuoso  is  the  reverent  possessor  of  a  genuine  "Cremona."  He 
consents  to  take  for  his  pupil  a  handsome  youth  who  proves  to  have 
.  an  aptitude  for  technique,  but  not  the  soul  of  an  artist  The  youth 
,nas  led  the  happy,  careless  lif  e  of  a  modern,  well-to-do  young  Amer- 
ican and  he  cannot,  with  his  meagre  past,  express  the  love,  the  passion 
and  the  tragedies  of  life  and  all  its  happy  phases  as  can  the  master 
who  has  lived  life  in  all  its  fulness.  -  But  a  girl  comes  into  his  life — a 
beautiful  bit  of  human  driftwood  that  his  aunt  had  taken  into  her 
heart  and  home,  and  through  his  passionate  love  for  her,  he  learns 
the  lessons  that  life  has  to  give — and  his  soul  awakes.  < 
Founded  on  a  fact  that  aH  artists  realize. 

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CHARMING  BOOKS  FOR  GIRLS 

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WHEN  PATTY  WENT  TO  COLLEGE,    By  Jean  Webster,  'j 
Illustrated  by  C.  D.  Williams. 

One  of  the  best  stories  of  life  in  a  girl's  college  that  has  ever  been 
written.  It  is  bright,  •whimsical  and  entertaining,  lifelike,  laughable 
and  thoroughly  human. 

JUST    PATTY,    By  Jean  Webster. 

Illustrated  by  C.  M.  Relyea. 

Patty  is  full  of  the  joy  of  living:,  fun-loving,  given  to  ingenious 
mischief  for  its  own  sake,  with  a  disregard  for  pretty  convention  which 
is  an  unfailing  source  of  joy  to  her  fellows. 

THE  POOR  LITTLE  RICH  GIRL,    By  Eleanor  Gates. 

With  four  full  page  illustrations. 

This  story  relates  the  experience  of  one  of  those  unfortunate  chil- 
dren whose  early  days  are  passed  in  the  companionship  of  a  governess, 
seldom  seeing  either  parent,  and  famishing  for  natural  love  and  tender- 
ness.  A  charming  play  as  dramatized  by  the  author. 

REBECCA  OF  SUNNYBROOK   FARM,       By  Kate  Douglas 
Wiggin. 

One  of  the  most  beautiful  studies  of  childhood — Rebecca's  artistic, 
unusual  and  quaintly  charming  qualities  stand  out  midst  a  circle  of 
austere  New  Englanders.  The  stage  version  is  making  a  phenominal 
dramatic  record. 

KEW  CHRONICLES  OF  REBECCA,   Bj  Kate  Douglas  Wiggia. 
Illustrated  by  F.  C.  Yohn. 

Additional  episodes  in  the  girlhood  of  this  delightful  heroine  that 
carry  Rebecca  through  various  stages  to  her  eighteenth  birthday. 

REBECCA  MARY,    By  Annie  Hamilton  DonnelL 
Illustrated  by  Elizabeth  Shippen  Green. 

This  author  possesses  the  rare  gift  of  portraying  all  the  grotesque 
little  joys  and  sorrows  and  scruples  of  this  very  small  girl  with  a  pv 
thos  that  is  peculiarly  genuine  and  appealing. 

EMMY  LOU;    Her  Book  and  Heart,    By  George  Madden  Martin 

Illustrated  by  Charles  Louis  Hinton. 

Emmy  Lou  is  irresistibly  lovable,  because  she  is  so  absolutely  real. 
She  is  just  a  bewitchingly  innocent,  hugable  little  maid.  The  book  is 
wonderfully  human. 

A.A  for  complete  fret  list  of  G.  &  D.  Popular  Co^yrigheA  Fiction 

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NOVELS  OF  FRONTIER  LIFE  BY 

WILLIAM  MacLEOD    RAINE 

HANDSOMELY  BOUND  IN  CLOTH.     ILLUSTRATED. 
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MAVERICKS. 

A  tale  of  the  western  frontier,  where  the  "rustler,"  whose  dep- 
redations are  so  keenly  resented  by  the  early  settlers  of  the  range, 
abounds.  One  of  the  sweetest  love  stories  ever  told./ 

A  TEXAS  RANGER. 

How  a  member  of  the  most  dauntless  border  police  force  carried 
law  into  the  mesquit,  saved  the  life  of  an  innocent  man  after  a  series 
of  thrilling  adventures,  followed  a  fugitive  to  Wyoming,  and  then 
passed  through  deadly  peril  to  ultimate  happiness.  _, 

WYOMING. 

In  this  vivid  story  of  the  outdoor  West  the  author  has  captured 
the  breezy  charm  of  "cattleland,"  and  brings  out  the  turbid  life  of 
the  frontier  with  all  its  engaging  dash  and  vigor. 

RIDGWAY  OF  MONTANA. 

The  scene  is  laid  in  the  mining  centers  of  Montana,  where  poli- 
tics and  mining  industries  are  the  religion  of  the  country.  The 
political  contest,  the  love  scene,  and  the  fine  character  drawing  give 
this  story  great  strength  and  charm. 

BUCKY  O'CONNOR, 

Every  chapter  teems  with  'wholesome,  stirring  adventures,  re- 
plete with  the  dashing  spirit  of  the  border,  told  with  dramatic  dash 
and  absorbing  fascination  of  style  and  plot. 

CROOKED  TRAILS  AND  STRAIGHT. 

A  story  of  Arizona;  of  swift-riding  men  and  daring  outlaws;  of 
a  bitter  feud  between  cattle-men  and  sheep-herders.  The  heroine 
•  is  a  most  unusual  woman  and  her  love  story  reaches  a  culmination 
that  is  fittingly  characteristic  of  the  great  free  West. 

BRAND  BLOTTERS. 

A  story  of  the  Cattle  Range.  This  story  brings  out  the  turbid 
life  of  the  frontier,  with  all  its  engaging  dash  and  vigor,  with  a  charm- 
ing love  interest  running  through  its  320  pages. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,     PUBLISHERS,      NEW  YORK 


STORIES    OF    WESTERN    LIFE 

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RIDERS  OF  THE  PURPLE  SAGE,    By  Zane  Grey. 
Illustrated  by  Douglas  Duer. 

In  this  picturesque  romance  of  Utah  of  some  forty  years  ago,  we 
are  permitted  to  see  the  unscrupulous  methods  employed  by  the  in- 
visible hand  of  the  Mormon  Church  to  break  the  will  of  those  refus- 
ing to  conform  to  its  rule. 

FRIAR  TUCK,    By  Robert  Alexander  Wason. 
Illustrated  by  Stanley  L.  Wood. 

Happy  Hawkins  tells  us,  in  his  humorous  way,  how  Friar  Tuck 
lived  among  the  Cowboys,  how  he  adjusted  their  quarrels  and  love 
affairs  and  how  he  fought  with  them  and  for  them  when  occasion 
required. 

THE   SKY  PILOT,    By  Ralph   Connor. 
Illustrated  by  Louis  Rhead. 

There  is  no  novel,  dealing  with  the  rough  existence  of  cowboys, 
so  charming  in  the  telling,  abounding  as  it  does  with  the  freshest  and 
the  truest  pathos. 

THE  EMIGRANT  TRAIL,    By  Geraldine  Bonner. 
Colored  frontispiece  by  John  Rae. 

The  book  relates  the  adventures  of  a  party  on  its  overland  pil- 
grimage, and  the  birth  and  growth  of  the  absorbing  love  of  two  strong 
men  for  a  charming  heroine. 

THE  BOSS   OF  WIND  RIVER,    By  A.  M.  Chisholm. 
Illustrated  by  Frank  Tenney  Johnson. 

This  is  a  strong,  virile  novel  with  the  lumber  industry  for  its  cen* 
tral  theme  and  a  love  story  full  of  interest  as  a  sort  of  subplot. 

A  PRAIRIE  COURTSHIP,    By  Harold  Bindloss. 

A  story  of  Canadian  prairies  in  which  the  hero  is  stirred,  through 
the  influence  of  his  love  for  a  woman,  to  settle  down  to  the  heroic 
business  of  pioneer  farming. 

JOYCE  OF  THE  NORTH  WOODS,    By  Harriet  T.  Comstock. 

Illustrated  by  John  Cassel. 

A  story  of  the  deep  woods  that  shows  the  power  of  love  at  work 
among  its  primitive  dwellers.  It  is  a  tensely  moving  study  of  the 
human  heart  and  its  aspirations  that  unfolds  itself  through  thrilling 
situations  and  dramatic  developments. 

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JACK    LONDON'S    NOVELS 

May  be  had  wherever  books  ara  sold.      Ask  for  Grosset  *  Dunlap's  list 

JOHN  BARLEYCORN.    Illustrated  by  H.  T.  Dunn. 

This  remarkable  book  is  a  record  of  the  author's  own  amazing 
experiences.  This  big,  brawny  world  rover,  who  has  been  ac- 
quainted with  alcohol  from  boyhood,  comes  out  boldly  against  John 
Barleycorn.  It  is  a  string  of  exciting  adventures,  yet  it  forcefully 
conveys  an  unforgetable  idea  and  makes  a  typical  Jack  London  book. 

THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON.    Frontispiece  by  George  Harper. 

The  story  opens  in  the  city  slums  where  Billy  Roberts,  teamster 
and  ex-prize  fighter,  and  Saxon  Brown,  laundry  worker,  meet  and 
love  and  marry.  They  tramp  from  one  end  of  California  to  the 
other,  and  in  the  Valley  of  the  Moon  find  the  farm  paradise  that  is 
to  be  their  salvation. 

BURNING  DAYLIGHT.    Four  illustrations. 

The  story  of  an  adventurer  who  went  to  Alaska  and  laid  the 
foundations  of  his  fortune  before  the  gold  hunters  arrived.  Bringing 
his  fortunes  to  the  States  he  is  cheated  out  of  it  by  a  crowd  of  money 
kings,  and  recovers  it  only  at  the  muzzle  of  his  gun.  He  then  starts 
out  asja  merciless  exploiter  on  his  own  account.  Finally  he  takes  to 
drinking  and  becomes  a  picture  of  degeneration.  About  this  time 
he  falls  in  love  with  his  stenographer  and  wins  her  heart  but  not 
her  hand  and  then — but  read  the  story! 

A  SON  OF  THE  SUN.  Illustrated  by  A.  O.  Fischer  and  C.W.  Ashley. 

David  Grief  was  once  a  light-haired,  blue-eyed  youth  who  came 
from  England  to  the  South  Seas  in  search  of  adventure.  Tanned 
like  a  native  and  as  lithe  as  a  tiger,  he  became  a  real  son  of  the  sun. 
The  life  appealed  to  him  and  he  remained  and  became  very  wealthy. 
THE  CALL  OF  THE  WILD.  Illustrations  by  Philip  R.  Goodwin  and 
Charles  Livingston  Bull.  Decorations  by  Charles  E.  Hooper. 

A  book  ot  dog  adventures  as  exciting  as  any  man's  exploits 
could  be.  Here  is  excitement  to  stir  the  blood  and  here  is  pictur- 
esque color  to  transport  the  reader  to  primitive  scenes. £ 

THE  SEA  WOLF.    Illustrated  by  W.  J.  Aylward. 

Told  by  a  man  whom  Fate  suddenly  swings  from  his  fastidious 
life  into  the  power  of  the  brutal  captain  of  a  sealing  schooner.  A 
novel  of  adventure  warmed  by  a  beautiful  love  episode  that  every 
reader  will  hail  with  delight. 

WHITE  FANG.    Illustrated  by  Charles  Livingston  Bull. 

"White  Fang"  is  part  dog,  part  wolf  and  all  brute,  living  in  the 
frozen  north ;  he  gradually  comes  under  the  spell  of  man's  com- 
panionship,  and  surrenders  all  at  the  last  in  a  fight  with  a  bull  dog. 
Thereafter  he  is  man's  loving  slave. 

GROSSET   &    DUNLAP,  PUBLISHERS',    NEW    YORK 


B.  M.  Bower's  Novels 

Thrilling  Western  Romances 

Large  12  mos.  Handsomely  bound  in  cloth.     Illustrated 

CHIP,  OF  THE  FLYING  U 

A  breezy  wholesome  tale,  wherein  the  love  affairs  of  Chip  and 
Delia  Whitman  are  charmingly  and  humorously  told.  Chip's 
jealousy  of  Dr.  Cecil  Grantham,  who  turns  out  to  be  a  big.  blue 
eyed  young  woman  is  very  amusing.  A  clever,  realistic  story  of 
the  American  Cow-puncher. 

THE  HAPPY  FAMILY 

A  lively  and  amusing  story,  dealing  with  the  adventures  of 
eighteen  jovial,  big  hearted  Montana  cowboys.    Foremost  amongst 
them,  we  find  Ananias  Green,  known  as  Andy,  whose  imaginative 
powers  cause  many  lively  and  exciting  adventures. 
HER  PRAIRIE  KNIGHT 

A  realistic  story  of  the  plains,  describing  a  gay  party  of  Eas- 
terners who  exchange  a  cottage  at  Newport  for  the  rough  homeli- 
ness of  a  Montana  ranch-house.  The  merry-hearted  cowboys,  the 
fascinating  Beatrice,  and  the  effusive  Sir  Redmond,  become  living, 
breathing  personalities. 

THE  RANGE  DWELLERS 

e  Here  are  everyday,  genuine  cowboys,  just  as  they  really  exist. 
Spirited  action,  a  range  feud  between  two  families,  and  a  Roraeo 
and  Juliet  courtship  make  this  a  bright,  jolly,  ^entertaining  story, 
without  a  dull  page.  -#&•.<  ,* 

THE   LURE  OF  DIM  TRAILS 

A  vivid  portrayal  of  the  experience  of  an  Eastern  author, 
among  the  cowboys  of  the  West,  in  search  of  "local  color"  for  a 
new  novel.  "Bud"  Thurston  learns  many  a  lesson  while  following 
"the  lure  of  the  dim  trails"  but  the  hardest,  and  probably  the  most 
welcome,  is  that  of  love.  ,-v-J*  ^" 
THE  LONESOME  TRAIL , 

"Weary"  Davidson  leaves  the  ranch  for  Portland,  where  con- 
ventional city  life  palls  on  him.  A  little  branch  of  sage  brush, 
pungent  with  the  atmosphere  of  the  prairie,  and  the  recollection  of 
a  pair  of  large  brown  eyes  soon  compel  his  return.  _  A  wholesome 
love  story,  ••  ,\f 

THE  LONG  SHADOW 

^ _____ 

A  vigorous  Western  story,  sparkling  wittt  the  free,  outdoor, 
life  of  a  mountain  ranch.  Its  scenes  shift  rapidly  and  its  actors  play 
the  game  of  life  fearlessly  and  like  men.  It  is  a  fine  love  story  from 
start  to  finish. 

Ask  for  a  complete  free  list  of  G.  &  D.  Popular  Copyrighted  Fiction. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26-ra  ST.,  NEW  YORK 


miinim 

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